The Royal Rake (Royal Romances Book 3)

by Molly Jameson

“I thought I did for a very long time. I wanted to save her, which isn’t at all the same thing.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, Evie took the bottle from him and had a drink, “Are you sorry to miss your birthday events?”

  “Not as much as I should be. Being so sedate, inactive—I’d rather be flying a chopper or diving or saving someone,” he said.

  “Or losing yourself at least?” she said, and he looked up at her sharply, “Isn’t that the point?”

  “I reckon it is,” he said.

  “So is it the adrenaline rush or a hero complex?”

  “I couldn’t say. I like it, always have. I’ve been physical since I was small. I was forever being scolded for climbing on fences and getting on the roof of the carriage house...read too many comics as a lad, my mum says,” he said.

  “You said you wanted to save this—young woman who passed away. Hero Complex is my guess,” she said, taking another drink.

  “So what’s your analysis, since we’ve completed mine? You’re smart and defensive and act like you couldn’t care about having male attention, but you keep kissing me.”

  “I think everybody has their baggage to tote around. I haven’t had my heart broken or anything. I’ve been busy,” she said, really not wanting to have this conversation.

  “Then you’re naturally—formidable, I suppose.”

  “You mean because I take no shit? You might say we come from different backgrounds. My mom took care of me no matter what, even though I showed up and ruined her life,” she said.

  “Did she tell you that you spoilt her life?”

  “No, but the story I heard my whole life was that she and Peter were high school sweethearts, and they broke up one weekend and how her getting pregnant was nothing but this stupid mistake, some guy at a frat party she sneaked into when she was a senior in high school,” she said.

  “I fail to see how that is down to you,” he said, taking a long drink from the tequila bottle.

  “If she hadn’t been pregnant, she could have gotten back with Peter! He called her a few weeks later and professed his love, but by then she knew she was pregnant. So I was her ticket to single mom city and working two jobs,” Evie sighed.

  “I’m sober enough to realize that makes no sense. Even if it did, you’re here for a reason. Look in there at those scones you made—you created something beautiful that wouldn’t be in the world if you hadn’t been born,” he said.

  “You have an awfully high opinion of my scones, considering you think they justify my existence,” she said wryly.

  “I know people who have much less to show for their years on the planet,” he said.

  “What about you? What do you have to show for it?”

  “I saved some drunk fishermen and rescued a few intrepid water-skiers who didn’t know how to do up the clips on the life belt properly. I’ve climbed Aconcagua in winter,” he smiled.

  “Where is that?”

  “Highest peak in the Andes. It’s in Argentina,” he said.

  “What did you find up there? Great view? Bragging rights?”

  “Silence. There’s not a deal of that in the world, do you notice?”

  “I do notice. That’s a long way to go to find it, though.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” he said ruefully.

  “Have you tried yoga or meditation?”

  “No. I may be man enough to drink tea at the Pump Room, but I’m not sure my masculinity would survive yoga class. Wearing tights and stretching…” he said.

  “Here, I’ll show you. There are loads of YouTubes with yoga routines. Stand up,” she said.

  “I think not. Good of you to offer, but no.”

  “Very well. I was just trying to restore your peace of mind,” she teased.

  “I reckon it’ll take a deal to manage that with—with the tragedy,” he said diffidently.

  Evie crossed the four feet between them, bent down and hugged him. Leo caught her against him, letting the bottle of tequila roll to the carpet. He pulled her across his lap and held onto her tightly. She let him bury his face in her hair, and she breathed him in—the scent of him. She wanted to sink into his arms and squeeze her eyes shut and look for oblivion. Instead, she kept one foot on the floor, so she didn’t have to let all of her weight onto his lap. It would make the embrace so much less impetuous and meaningful if he grunted and shoved her off on the rug.

  But Leo showed no sign of pushing her away. He pulled her closer, gathered her into his arms until she was in the chair with him, feeling his heart thudding the same way hers did. He was miserable, she reminded herself, trying to ignore that inconvenient sizzle of attraction. He stroked her hair, and she let herself melt into him. He was warm and strong and held her like something precious and necessary. Remember this, she told herself. It felt rare, private. Evie had never been held like this like she was the thing he needed most and craved.

  She felt the dip and push of his breath and synced her breathing with his. Her loneliness clawed at her, fighting her resolve to respect his grief, to resist comforting him in some irrevocable and indiscreet way. She gripped his hair, silky and thick, and bit down on her lip. Don’t let go, is what she thought, what she wouldn’t say to him.

  “Stay with me,” he said, his whisper hot against her hair.

  Evie shook her head and pulled away. She was unsure of the appropriate etiquette when an inebriated royal hiding out in one’s apartment embraces one in a surge of grief. Was it, for example, poor form to ask him to take off his shirt so one might comfort him properly? She knew for certain that shagging him stupid would be taking advantage, being selfish. She also knew she could fall for him in half a heartbeat; she was nearly there already. There was no way she was taking that risk. Her face flamed and her skin itched, and she knew her pulse was racing. It would be so easy to surrender.

  As she moved away, Leo caught her hand and kissed it. He was all earnest blue-eyed intensity, so searingly beautiful that she nearly had to look away.

  “You’re quite a girl, Evelyn Bartlett,” he said.

  “That sounds like something from an old movie—something the leading man would say to Barbara Stanwyck before he destroyed her family’s vineyard.”

  “You truly have the most vivid and bizarre thought process…and you share it right out loud. It’s terrifying how your mind works.”

  “I was hoping to keep you terrified,” she said softly.

  “I don’t want to be alone,” he said, his eyes unfairly cobalt blue.

  Leo tugged at her hand, pulled her back across his lap. She wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, and there was a moment of awkwardness when she considered leaping up from his lap before she crushed his legs or something. Then his mouth came down on hers; her tongue slid against his, and her hands were in that longish sandy hair. She melted into him, into the heat and the tang of tequila in his mouth and the heady feeling of his hands in her hair. Leo’s muscular shoulders bunched and flexed under her hands and she could imagine him diving into the roiling sea to rescue people with those ridiculous arms, powerful enough that he stood and lifted her in one motion. She held on to his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his waist without hesitation. There were moments to be practical, moments to protect your heart, and there were moments like this one, to live in and remember forever.

  Leo murmured something about her being beautiful, about her saving him. All she could think was, God, I’ve missed you! But he was a near stranger, not someone she could have missed. Why, then, did it feel so right, so much like coming home?

  Leo was above her now, pressing her down into the couch cushions, soft and deep and a little dusty. She felt herself yield to him, wrap him in her arms. He wasn’t what she had imagined at all—and she had imagined. She’d had a weakness for Prince Leopold and his wicked pirate’s smile since she was a teenager gaping at the celebrity magazine covers. She would have thought him wild and forceful, the sort to throw her down
and ravish her. Of course, as a teenager who hid fat paperbacks under her mattress, she had assumed that all couplings were of the bodice ripping variety. Even as an adult, nothing in her experience had prepared her for this, for Leo’s warmth, his strength and his tenderness. She felt a deep pull in her belly as he cupped her breast in his hand, his thumb stroking her nipple. Her hips arched toward him of their accord, her body responding to him before her brain had a chance to talk her out of it.

  “Stay with me, Evie,” he said again.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She knew from his kiss, from the way sparks traveled up her spine when he kissed her neck that she would say ‘yes’ to him a thousand times more before the night was through. Leo coaxed her, his hands on her face, his mouth against her throat, her hair, his hands tender but insistent, moving aside her clothes, tossing them over the back of the couch. Their legs twisted together, and he kissed her so long that she was breathless with the ebb and flow of their lips and tongues. Evie struggled with the buttons of his shirt, tiny and impossibly thin buttons that were probably made of rare seashells or opals or something.

  “Can I just rip these? The buttons are making me crazy,” she said.

  “How could I say no to that?” he said.

  With a tug, she tried to yank his shirt open. Frustrated by the sturdy construction of the garment, she huffed, unable to dislodge a single button, “Allow me,” he said, kneeling above her on the couch and jerking his shirt open. She heard the skitter of buttons peppering the wooden floors, and one of the cats yowled, bolting for the bedroom.

  She could reach him now, could touch the smooth, flawless skin, trace with her fingers the cut lines of his muscular chest and stomach. Evie meant to savor the moment, the first time she touched his bare skin, but her hands went down to his hips, her thumbs stroking the six-pack abs. Evie had never been in bed—or in couch—with six-pack abs before. They were so firm and sculpted she had the fleeting impulse to bounce off the sofa, turn on all the lights and get a good look. Because this was not the body of an accountant or a salesman. This was the rock hard body of a man who hung off helicopters rescuing people. A man who did rugged, adventurous things like climbing mountains just to get to silence. The simple fact of him, royalty or not, turned her on.

  “I want you, Leo,” she said, hoping he didn’t see her blush in the dim light at her boldness, “not a prince, just the man,” and she meant it so hard. Because here was Leo, with those ultramarine eyes, who had walked into her shop and her life in the middle of a rainstorm and started making her happy like it was his job. He was nine kinds of incredible and the fact that he was real, living flesh under her hands that could not believe their good luck—was damn near impossible.

  “Of all the bakeries in Bath, how’d you end up walking into mine?” she murmured, kissing his shoulder.

  “Yesterday I might have said it was only the rain brought me there. Now I’m more inclined to call it kismet,” he said, his voice smoky and low.

  Evie felt that voice in her chest, in her limbs, and she wanted him to talk to her like that forever. At the same time, she wanted him to shut up and kiss her until she passed out. It was a dilemma of the very best kind, she decided.

  “You said you wanted to lose yourself. So let’s get lost,” she said, as flirtatiously as she dared.

  “I thought I already was,” he said.

  Leo buried his face in her neck, his mouth on her collarbone. He kissed a fiery trail down her breastbone, his tongue sliding along the underside of her breast. Her breath came hard and fast, her very fingertips tingling with anticipation as he kissed his way languorously just centimeters from exactly where she wanted his mouth. She wriggled beneath him, her fists full of the fabric of his open shirt, her legs sliding along his with delicious friction. When at last, his lips closed over her nipple, the throb between her legs kicked up. She panted like she’d been running a marathon and Evie’s hands groped for his hair, holding his face right where it was. She made a sound, squeaky but pleased, and he laughed. She felt him laugh against her skin, and something about his hot breath skating across her taut nipple, damp from his mouth made her twitch and cling and pull on him, frantic.

  Evie had never felt desperation before, never felt like she might die if she didn’t have him. As much as she wanted more of the sensations his mouth had given her, those skittering bolts of pleasure rocketing from her nipples down between her legs, what she needed most was his kiss. She took his face in her hands, the lean planes of his jaw and cheekbones so smooth in her palms. She rocked her lips against his, and when his tongue filled her mouth, she gave a soft moan. He settled his body between her thighs and she felt him relax into her, letting more of his weight onto her and also wrapping his arms all the way around her, holding her against the wall of his chest. Oh, she felt consumed and cherished and a thousand wonderful things!

  “Ah, Evie,” he said hoarsely, “if ye tell me to stop, I will,” he said, holding her to him. His lush accent turned a hint toward Scottish, which was even sexier if that was possible. She shook her head fervently.

  “I won’t tell you to stop. Let’s get lost together,” she said.

  Evie didn’t tell him she was already halfway lost herself. She was balanced on the edge of a blade, it seemed, trying not to lose her balance and fall for him. His mouth was on hers again. It was maybe too late to keep her balance. It was maybe too late to care if she fell.

  Evie felt like a teenager, the heady scent of their sweat, their desire thick in the air, her bare shoulders pressed into the couch cushions, his face only inches from hers as they touched and explored and kissed. No one had ever kissed her this long, this fully, like kissing in itself was the prize, the thing he wanted most with her. He kissed softly, coaxing her lips apart with tenderness, his tongue gentle and probing as her mouth yielded to him with a flush of satisfaction. Then he held her head, his fingers tangled in her hair, his palm cradling her head as he kissed her harder, claiming her, making her start to tremble, teasing soft sounds from her throat, driving her to rub up against him, catlike, just to feel his bare skin against hers.

  By the time she kicked away her panties, by the time Evie had pushed down his trousers, she was so shaken, so breathless and trembling, that her throat was tight, her lips bruised, her hands digging into his hips eagerly. He paused, even as she urged him on, and leaned his forehead against hers, brushing back her tangled messy hair and looking her full in the eyes. A light kiss, he tugged her lower lip with his teeth as he entered her.

  “Oh! Oh!” she said.

  Every time he stroked inside her, she said “oh!” as if it were surprising. And it was surprising, how elemental, how raw and personal it felt. That Leo was within her that she could accept him this way, claim him this way and be joined to him—it was astonishing and brought with it feelings she didn’t care to name. Evie held on to him, his back, his thick arms as he levered himself above her. She wound her arms around his neck, kissing him. He slid a hand down her thigh, wrapping her leg around his back so he could go deeper. He managed to rock against that place inside her that made her groan and make throaty, primitive sounds as she came. Her limbs jerked, and she clung to him. Leo kissed her then when she was at her peak. He kept thrusting until she felt him go rigid in her arms, and she claimed him with a kiss as he found his release. Tangled up together on the couch, they held each other. She wrapped her arms around him as if to give him comfort. He lay against her, both arms around her, not tentative, not casual, but as if she were his life raft.

  “Thank you for letting me stay here. I would not have wanted to be alone in my hotel tonight,” he said diffidently.

  “You’re welcome. After that performance, you can use the fancy guest soaps on the sink,” she said.

  “You must know what I mean, although I’m saying it rather poorly. You’ve rescued me today, Evie Bartlett. I stand by my original statement. You’re quite a girl.”

  “Thank you. I
stand by my original statement that you’re too pretty to be believed, a complete cliché…the charming prince. So that makes me quite a lucky girl.”

  “Ah, you’re not my usual sort at all. You’re the ideal English girl apart from being American. You’re everything wholesome, hearth and home, keeping calm and carrying on and the like.”

  Evie burrowed against his shoulder and drifted off to sleep in his arms. When he started to snore—at least he wasn’t completely perfect!—she got up carefully and went to bed alone, leaving him to his rest.

  ***

  At four in the morning, she was up and baking as usual. It didn’t feel usual, though. She was aware of him just in the next room, of his presence and the weight of what they’d done together. Evie showered and thought about how he’d react this morning. He’d been a little drunk and very sad from the sudden bad news. She had been the one with the clear head, the one who chose to take him to couch. Chances are, a man who looked like Leopold did, royalty or not, had navigated the morning after with a random girl more than once. So he could probably disappoint all her hopes in the most charming way, but she wasn’t about to give him a chance. She’d take it for the one-off it had been, have her good memory of the night intact, untainted by any scenes of being let down easy.

  It was just an ordinary day at work, Evie told herself. She was not, however, dressed for an ordinary day. Some impulse—one that had been notably absent when she’d chosen to wear jeans and a sweater on a surprise jaunt to a fancy tearoom—whispered that she should try to look a bit prettier. So instead of yoga pants and a hoodie, Evie had put on her brocade skirt and a slinky black top and her kitten heels. She wore an apron over them, but it remained an exceedingly stupid outfit for baking.

  She spread currant scones on the tray in her glass case and checked the boring but very sellable blueberry muffins. Her blueberry muffins had a crumble topping, so they were at least a little bit special. What Leo had said about her being hearth and home and everything calm bothered her. Evie loved running Thimble, and she was proud of what she’d done—how she’d taken a struggling bakery and transformed it into a lovely, gracious, sometimes even profitable tearoom.