The Royal Rake (Royal Romances Book 3)

by Molly Jameson

  “Welcome to Notting Hill. How was your trip?”

  “It was lovely. You’re looking—fit,” she said.

  “Ah, no, I can’t do press-ups for another three months at least, the physio says. I’ll have no upper body strength at all. Not much use in search and rescue if I can’t lift anything above fifteen pounds,” he said ruefully.

  “I brought you some scones. I remember you liked them, and it’s down to you that they’re huge right now. I did a thread on Twitter about royalty and posted that picture you sent me. People started tweeting tabloid photos of your family with a scone sitting on top of them,” she said.

  Evie watched his face. So chiseled and handsome and so studiously happy for her, not showing any regret that she’d made him into a scone spokesmodel or that pictures of his family with baked goods on top of them were trending on Twitter thanks to her. She followed him up the stairs and took a seat on a plush green armchair.

  “I didn’t set out to exploit your whole family. Just you. Because the picture of you made my business take off. Someone else, some follower started setting muffins and things on tabloids or their keyboards with TMZ articles in the background…I guess it’s silly,” she said.

  “If that were the worst thing in the media about my family, that we looked a bit foolish with a crumbly biscuit on top of our picture, we’d be very lucky. I don’t mind it, Evie. It’s helped you. Has your scone got the bespoke coffee people quaking in their wellies?”

  “I don’t think they’re quaking exactly, but they did try a copycat ad blitz with some Princess Lizzy-lookalike drinking their coffee last week, but it was obviously not her. I mean, she might as well have been a Kardashian impersonator,” she said.

  “I never understand above half what you say. Are you up for a trip to the market?”

  “Can you do that?”

  “It’s my shoulder, not my legs. I can walk just fine. And I’m not Jamie or, as you say, Lizzy, who have courted paparazzi attention in the past. I’m not as recognized. I reckon we can go about in the market without much trouble if you’re game,” he said.

  He led her back downstairs to the door. She shrugged her coat back on to go outside, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Here, you’ll need this,” he said, draping the long blue scarf around her neck.

  “Don’t you need it?” she asked, trying to hide the fact that she wanted to stuff the scarf in her pocket and keep it forever because it was his and smelled of him.

  “Royal blood—we hardly get cold at all,” he said, “my sister says blue blood is thicker.”

  “What about the commoners who had to work out in the cold while your ancestors warmed their royal backsides at the fires…made from wood chopped by hardy peasants?”

  “I didn’t say she was a scientist, was Lizzy,” he chuckled. “Would you help me on with this?” he asked.

  Leo had shrugged on one sleeve of his overcoat, but the other hung down his back, the arm useless in its sling. She draped the coat across his shoulder.

  “There. It’s very Mr. Rochester, like a cape,” she said.

  “I thank you for trying to console me about it. It’s bollocks not having a coat on properly in December,” he said.

  “How’d you get the t-shirt on? I mean, you’re wearing the sleeves to it just fine.”

  “Painfully and with the help of a particularly sadistic nurse who won’t have me walking round the flat bare-chested,” he said.

  “I thought royalty had to wear a shirt and cravat and smoking jacket at home,” she teased.

  “I can’t tie a cravat with only one arm so I’ve had been reduced to more casual attire,” he said with his scoundrel grin.

  “Surely your servants could tie it for you, maintain the appearance of being civilized,” she challenged.

  “I could also use help putting on my socks,” he said sheepishly.

  “I’m to put on your socks?” she said. “Sit down, then.”

  Leo disappeared into another room and returned with a pair of ordinary athletic socks. He sat in a chair, and she knelt on the floor and tried to put his sock on.

  “How did my mother do this for me when I was a kid? It’s harder than it looks, putting socks on someone else. It’s like there are toes everywhere and they won’t behave,” she said.

  He reached down and helped her adjust the heel of the sock. Evie pulled it up, reaching inside the leg of his jeans. When her fingers brushed the warm skin of his ankle, she was startled by the touch, by how much she felt it. Her eyes met his and he gave a half shrug.

  “I’ll wager you didn’t know it would be this much trouble when I asked you to go to the market,” he said.

  “You’re a prince. They’re supposed to be a lot of trouble,” she returned.

  “I thought we were only supposed to be charming,” Leo replied.

  “That, too. But if you’re charming enough no one minds the trouble, I guess.”

  “Would it help if I gave you a present?”

  “Always. But why would you give me a present?”

  “You made me that appalling biscuit cake for my birthday, and it is nearly Christmas. I’m not sure you’re aware that gift giving is traditional in Britain this time of year,” he said.

  Then, with only one sock on, he got up and fetched a carrier bag from another room and brought it to her.

  “I reckon I should have wrapped it, but I’ll blame my shoulder injury. I’ve had surgery, you see, so I ought to be excused from such things,” he said.

  “Thanks. I didn’t get you anything,” she faltered, a little shy.

  “You’ve come to visit me, your poor feeble invalid mate, and that’s gift enough,” he said, “now open it.”

  Evie reached in the bag, excited to see what he had gotten her. It was a large brown shopping bag with no indication of which store it came from. First, she pulled out a big flat box, red with the words Salvatore Ferragamo scrawled in discreet white script on the lid. She may have been from the wilds of Georgia but she knew what Italian designer shoes were, and she lifted the lid in wonder.

  Riding boots in rich brown leather sophisticated with a simple gold buckle detail, a stacked heel—just the thing to add polish to her usual yoga pants, she thought ruefully. They were so beautiful, and they smelled so good, fresh leather, buttery soft. She looked at the size on the box and saw they were a seven, just right for her. Puzzled, she wondered how he’d known her size, and why he’d get her a pair of boots for Christmas.

  “Go on, there’s something else,” he prompted.

  Evie reached back in the bag and pulled out two books. The first was a hardback volume in a pretty turquoise blue with a fancy gilt script on the cover, a history of afternoon tea in England. She touched the deckled edges of the pages and looked from the book to Leo’s expectant face and back again. She glanced at the other book, a glossy paperback with a tabloid shot of Leo on the cover.

  “The Bad Boy Prince: An Unauthorized Insider’s Bio?” she said with a giggle.

  “I thought you should brush up on your royal gossip since you clearly didn’t recognize me when we met. But then I decided it was gauche to give you a biography of myself for your book, so I thought the one on tea was more in your line,” he said.

  “Thank you. Why did you--?”

  “Because you said your aunt always got you boots and a book at Christmastime and that if you knew you had a pair of good shoes and a book chosen just for you that things couldn’t be that bad. When I told you I wished you better days, I thought this might help a little,” he said.

  “I can’t believe you did this. It’s so sweet. And you’re terrible at this,” she said.

  “Terrible at what?”

  “At not seducing me. Because if you’re trying not to get me into bed, this isn’t how you manage it. This is how you go after me with guns blazing, so I throw myself at you.”

  Leo pushed a hand through his sandy hair and shook his head. �
�I’m not going after you, Evie. I just like you and thought this would make you smile, forgive me.”

  “See, that pisses me off. When you do something incredibly sweet and then ask me to forgive you for being such an irresistible dreamboat. Now I feel like an ungrateful bitch. Thank you, Leo. For the present and the misplaced attraction and the bloody guilt,” she said. Then she kicked off her shoes and tried on the Ferragamo's.

  “So you’re angry, but you like the boots?”

  “I love the boots. I love all of it. Including—“ Evie stopped herself before saying ‘you.' It was true, but she didn’t want to tell him. She wanted to launch herself at him and kiss him. Or else she wanted to sit down and bawl. She felt like a very confused fifteen-year-old with a hopeless crush on a bad boy. So she didn’t finish her sentence even at his urging.

  “Including?”

  “The silly tell-all bio, obviously. Now are we going to get some food? I can put your other sock on you, if you like,” she offered robustly.

  Leo shoved his feet in his sneakers and opened the door for her.

  “You’re only wearing one sock. It’s positively scandalous,” she teased.

  “Charcuterie?”

  “What?”

  “Meat and cheese? Get some bread and olives?” he suggested.

  “Sounds like heaven,” she told him.

  “I thought tea at the Pump Room was heaven. Now cheese from the market is heaven? You have a very generous definition of paradise.”

  “Low expectations,” she said, “so everything is a brilliant surprise.”

  “Are you going to the States for the holidays?” he asked.

  “No, it’s my mom’s first Christmas with Peter since they got married. They’re going to see his sister in Vermont.”

  “Peter, as in the boyfriend who dumped her?” he said as avidly as if it were a soap opera.

  “Yeah. Right before I inherited the tearoom I made her go to her class reunion and there he was, divorced and still hung up on her. It’s one of the reasons I was glad to have a chance to move away. Give them a chance to get it right,” she said.

  “Did you feel you were in the way?”

  “Yeah. He’s a nice guy, and it may be all in my head, but I thought it would be better if the walking, talking reminder of her one mistake weren't all up in their face all the time, you know?”

  “I’m glad she’s happy. I reckon she still misses you at Christmas though.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I’d miss you, if you were mine.”

  “If I were your daughter?” she rolled her eyes at him, “or are you just being irresistible again? Because, seriously, tone it down.”

  They reached the market, which was crowded despite the cold. They could see puffs of their breath in the chilly air as they talked about goat cheese and rye bread and debated salami versus ham. Back at the house, they unwrapped the food, and he set it out on a platter and opened a bottle of wine.

  She watched Leo pour red wine into a glass, devastating in his t-shirt, his sling, his one sock. The sight of him hit her like a blow to the sternum and her heart skipped. She took the glass and nearly drained it in one. He gave her that half-smile, the pirate grin that undid her completely; that knocked all the sense out of her faster than a Louisville Slugger to the cranium.

  “That’s not only cranberry juice. You don’t want to get tipsy and start saying things you’ll regret,” he said.

  “I thought I informed you of my position on regrets. How we only regret the chances we don’t take,” she said.

  Evie was flirting, and she didn’t care. It was surreal to be in the dim Notting Hill kitchen of a royal townhouse on a December afternoon with a prince. She couldn’t help herself flirting with him just a little.

  “I didn’t go to Adrianna’s funeral,” he said, sinking into the chair opposite hers and taking a drink.

  “I know. I read the gossip sites,” she confessed.

  “Stalker,” he said half-heartedly, “it was too pitiful, the way she ended. I didn’t want to take attention off her life by turning up and being looked at and photographed like I was the real story. The real story is the rubbish state of mental health care and addiction treatment in most of the civilized world,” he said.

  “Is that something, I mean, is there a charity you can promote that would help with that?”

  “I reckon there is. I should look into that. I’ve been a bit gloomy and haven’t done much useful lately.”

  “Besides saving that guy’s life?”

  “There was that, but that’s work, and I love it. I love saving people or trying to. I just keep wondering if I had tried harder, could I have saved Dree, you know?”

  “I think we can only save ourselves in this life, Leo. That’s what I’ve come to believe. Do you think you could have?”

  “No, it’s more I wish I could have. I don’t think I was ever more powerful than her demons. I think it was probably hell living inside her head, and she tried to numb it out any way she could, but it was too much in the end,” he said, “or maybe that’s only what I tell myself to stop feeling useless.”

  Evie covered his hand with hers. “How can I help?”

  “You could kiss me until I forget,” he said.

  Leo looked almost boyish, not at all the playboy he was reputed to be. She pushed aside the thought that she might be nothing more than his place to hide, a temporary distraction.

  “You sure you don’t just want me to make you some tea?” she offered nervously.

  He stood up and took her hand and kissed it. Oh Lord, she thought, the hand kissing—can’t withstand the hand kissing. It was total Kryptonite to her. He pulled her to her feet and touched her cheek.

  “What if I hurt your arm?” she asked, feeling stupid.

  “You hadn’t thought to jump up and down on my shoulder, had you? Otherwise, I reckon I’ll be fine. I’m lonesome, Evie, and I don’t feel like I’m much use. I couldn’t save Dree. I’m not sure I can even save myself,” he said.

  “Then it’s a good thing for us both that I don’t need saving, Leo,” she told him.

  Leo wrapped his arm around her and hauled her against his chest. She kissed him because she couldn’t have stopped herself from kissing him if she’d tried. There it was, that sizzle along her skin that she felt every time they kissed. His mouth moved to her neck, and she stroked his hair, wanting him to keep doing exactly what sent those shivers all through her body.

  A pounding on the door surged through their consciousness, and they broke apart. Whoever was outside continued to knock relentlessly and began to bellow as well.

  “Leopold, open this door!” the voice boomed. Leo let go of her and went to the door. He swung it open and stood face to face with his eldest brother.

  “Jamie, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” he said.

  “Avoiding a bit of a scrape. I turned up at the Buck for luncheon and heard the dulcet tones of Inga in the lounge. I bolted for the first spot I could think of that would be reasonably free of my future betrothed.”

  “Ah, you’re hiding from Astrid. I expect they’re in town for Mother’s birthday.”

  “Christ! Is that today?”

  “It’s tomorrow, you horrid son. You can’t hide out here.”

  “Why not? Were you about to shag your in-home care nurse?” Jamie laughed.

  “Not the nurse, no.”

  “Bollocks! Not even surgery slows you down. And they call me the playboy.”

  “A title you earned quite nicely, I recall.”

  “Leo?” Evie said, coming down the steps to join him at the door.

  “Ah. Here we are. Evie, allow me to introduce you to my errant brother, the Prince of Wales. Jamie, this is Evelyn Bartlett, proprietor of the Thimble Tea Shop in Bath.”

  Evie stood there, fixed, a little breathless. Leo was sure she was overwhelmed, far more shocked by Jamie’s sudden appe
arance than he had been. After all, Jamie was his aggravating big brother, but he was Evie’s future king. She looked utterly dazzled, as they all did in Jamie’s presence. Jamie was many things—clever and generous, resilient, relentless. He was also voted the world’s most eligible bachelor six times. Leo felt quite suddenly out of patience with him.

  “The enterprising young lady with the scone named for my brother, right? Terribly clever of you. I don’t suppose you brought any of those with you? I’ve been dying for a taste of them myself. Be happy to let you have a snappie of me eating one,” Jamie said, shaking her hand and turning on the charm full force.

  “I happen to have a few inside. I brought them for Leopold, for his convalescence,” she stammered, finding her voice. Leo wanted to bar the door, refuse Jamie entry to his borrowed townhouse. He didn’t want his internationally notorious brother to have access to Evie. She was offering him scones. The scones she’d supposedly made just for Leo. It was appalling how quickly she switched allegiance like that. The door knocker had obviously saved him in this case, lest he fall back into couch with the adorable American only to have her steamroll past him to get to his more powerful, more handsome brother.

  His early training prevailed, and he stood aside for Jamie to enter. They went through to the table and Evie, moving comfortably around his kitchen as if she’d lived there all her life, got out tea things and arranged scones on a plate. She put the kettle on to heat, and he found himself watching her, ignoring his brother.

  “Are you here on official business? I could go—stand in a broom closet or something, I suppose, while the two of you talked,” Evie said.

  “That reminds me of Carrie. She and Edward and I spent some time in a broom closet at Drummond Castle during Phillip’s almost-wedding. A fine time was had by all on hand, apart from the groom, but he’s best as he is now,” Jamie said.