King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  “You didn’t meet Prince Owen,” he observes dryly. “Did he even show up? Was he even there?”

  “Oh, he was there,” Sinead assures him. “Perched on the top deck, looking down his nose at us. His cousins came down to mix with the guests, but he never did. There was a rumor he had some girls brought up to him.”

  “Which girls?” the Earl asks, intrigued.

  Sinead shrugs. “No one I know. I only heard about it third-hand.”

  The Earl turns to me. “And how about you, Norah? Did you see the prince? You’ve been awfully quiet since we got home. Did you have a good time?”

  Sinead smiles awkwardly for my benefit. She knew she was on her own as soon as the loud music started. I hate crowds and loud noise; that party was not my scene at all. That, and running into Collin put me in a bad mood.

  I didn’t tell Sinead about that, because honestly, I’m ashamed of myself. I’m ashamed I hooked up with a total stranger who ditched me, who lied to me, and who I can’t stop thinking about. The whole sordid thing paints me as pathetic.

  I shouldn’t have even been mad. I used a dating app. But I can’t explain it.

  “I had an okay time,” I lie. “I’ve never been to anything like that before. It was… interesting.”

  The Earl smiles sympathetically. “I’ll be honest with you, Norah: I’m not much for those sorts of soirees, either. And I’m probably less impressed with princes and dukes and the whole lot of nonsensical pretense than most of my countrymen.” He glances at Sinead, then back to me. “It’s why I married a good Irish Republican girl. She comes from a country that’s done well at keeping kings and queens in their proper place.”

  Sinead laughs. “You know my father’s an Orangeman, a devout loyalist.”

  He nods. “Yes, but I also know you’ve got your mother’s common sense, and she’s as green as Irish clover.”

  Before Sinead can reply, the dining room door opens and the butler appears, his face strained with anxiety. He moves toward the Earl, then leans down, whispering something in his master’s ear. The Earl’s face goes white as a sheet. His entire body tenses.

  “What’s wrong?” Sinead asks.

  The Earl takes a breath, nodding to his butler. “In the parlor. Give us a moment.”

  As soon as the butler departs, the Earl turns to me. “You have a visitor,” he says. “And I am all astonishment.”

  “I have a visitor?” How can that be? I don’t know anyone else in this country… except Collin.

  I feel my head cocking to the side. I feel my blood beginning to boil. That asshole. He tracked me down here. What is he, some kind of stalker? I really should have punched him in the nose.

  Well now I have a second chance.

  I’m on my feet before the Earl can elaborate. I’m in the wide, marble-paved foyer before he or Sinead can follow me. I’m in the parlor before the butler can clear his throat to announce me. And I am in Collin’s very shocked face, giving him a piece of my mind, before he can open his mouth.

  “Are you out of your mind?!” I demand accusingly, the anger palpable in my tone. “What in the hell are you doing here? Who in God’s name do you think you are? You’ve got some nerve. You’re worse than an asshole. Yesterday you were just an asshole—now you’re a certified creep, stalking after me like…”

  “Norah!” the Earl calls behind me.

  “…like a damned criminal!”

  “Norah,” he calls sharply, “shut up!”

  No one tells me to shut up.

  Collin smiles. His eyebrows cock with amusement, his blue eyes flashing brightly. He’s not even looking at me. He’s looking past me.

  I turn. Sinead and the Earl are behind me, both kneeling, heads down, eyes to the floor.

  “Rise, please,” Collin says. “Go on, get up. Nothing fancy. I’m just an asshole.”

  What in the ever-loving fuck is going on?

  The Earl stands first, helping his lady to her feet. Still, neither of them lift their gazes.

  “At your ease,” Collin says.

  The Earl looks up, swallowing hard, his face now bright red. He glares at me as if I’ve stabbed him in the head. Sinead just looks horrified.

  Collin steps around me, approaching the Earl. He offers his hand. “You are John Hereford, Earl of Herefordshire?”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” the Earl says, his voice trembling slightly.

  What?

  Collin turns his gaze to Sinead. “And your lady, sir?”

  The Earl nods, “I’m pleased to introduce my wife, Lady Sinead Hereford, formerly Hewson of County Down, Republic of Ireland.”

  Collin offers Sinead his hand, and by the looks of her, I’m pretty sure she’s going to faint. She’s shaking like a leaf, as pale as death.

  “I’m very pleased to meet both of you,” Collin says. “And I beg your pardon for interrupting your dinner with my unannounced visit.”

  “Not at all, Your Highness. Your visit is the highest compliment of our lives. I… I… I apologize most emphatically for the way you were first treated. My guest… Sir, I have no explanation. I beg your forgiveness.”

  “There’s no problem,” he says. “I’m apparently in the wrong, according to Norah.”

  This is crazy. I don’t understand.

  Collin returns to me. There’s something new in his demeanor, a haughtiness that wasn’t there before, a self-importance that isn’t attractive at all. “Forgiven,” he says. “Miss Ballantyne and I, as you may suspect, have met previously—under very different circumstances.”

  He comes to me, facing me, staring into my eyes. “She’s not to be reproached on the matter. She’s a foreigner. She doesn’t know any better. And I may have…”—he grins arrogantly—“I may have misled her as to my true identity.”

  What a fucking catastrophic asshole. ‘Collin’ is Prince Owen.

  Sinead wavers on unsteady feet. Then, quick as a hummingbird’s heartbeat, she drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes, out cold.

  The Earl looks down at his wife, then at me, then at the Prince. He sits down next to his wife, trying to revive her, looking like he might faint as well.

  Collin’s brow furrows. He blinks. “I guess I should have called ahead,” he says, deadpan. “Or maybe sent a card. It’s rude to just drop in unannounced.”

  4

  Owen

  Norah rolls her eyes at me, shaking her head in disbelief. She glares at her friends, then huffs out a string of expletives.

  “You motherfucking imposter. Fucking dirtbag,” she seethes and crosses her arms. “Biggest cunty asshole in the land of fucking cunty assholes.”

  “You have a dirty mouth,” I observe. “And that’s one of your better qualities.”

  “Oh, shut up and help me with these two,” she insists, going to her friend’s side, checking for a pulse—as if she has the first clue what to do to revive her.

  “Where’s the butler?” she asks Earl Hereford and then look to Prince Owen. “Do we need an ambulance?”

  The Earl is too out of it to respond, and Owen just shrugs.

  “I don’t know. How should I know?” She’s clearly irritated with me. At least she didn’t slap me again.

  I step into the foyer and call out for the butler’s assistance. He responds dutifully, hurrying in with a footman and maid at his heels. By the time he lands on his knees beside Earl Hereford, the man is chatting nicely with him and helping his wife to sitting. A moment later his wife pops back to life with animation, waving her arms in the air as if trying to swim to the surface of some deep pool she’s found herself in.

  “Your Highness, I’m mortified,” the Earl says once he’s collected himself sufficiently. He tries to stand but finds himself still unsteady.

  “Take a moment,” I say, trying to reassure him. “I’m not in the least put out.” Satisfied that no one is the worse for wear, I return to the point of my visit. “If it’s not too much bother, I’d like to take a short drive with Miss Ballantyne. I
have a few things I’d like to discuss with her.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Norah protests.

  The Earl shoots her a stern look. “Norah! Remember our conversation. You’re a guest in my home, and in his country. You will do as you’re told.”

  “Norah, please behave,” Sinead pleads. “This is serious.”

  She’s fuming and angry as hell. And just as sexy as she was when I first laid eyes on her.

  I offer my hand. “Shall we?” I say, motioning toward the door.

  “Where are we going?” Norah demands, slipping into the back seat beside me. Duncan is driving.

  “I want to show you where I live, and talk business,” I reply, turning my gaze toward my window so I won’t be tempted to study the curve of her knees or the shapely arc of her calves. Her legs are diverting, especially when I recall how nice they felt against my chest, with her heels hooked over my shoulders.

  “What business could we possibly have?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there,” I reply. “I’d prefer to discuss it in private, as I’m sure you would.”

  Duncan shoots me a hurt look from the rearview mirror. He knows exactly what I’m up to. Hell, I think he cooked this idea up himself and just convinced me it’s my idea. He’s clever like that. I’m going to need to make him the Minister of Defense before this is all said and done. I’d hate to have him working against me.

  Norah turns on her seat toward me, laying her open palm down on the soft leather between us. She leans in, eyes narrowed, judgy. “And what is the deal with the high-brow, posh manners and tone back there with Sinead and Earl Whatsit? You’re faking it! You’re faking it with me, or you’re faking it with everybody else. But one way or another, you’re a complete fake!”

  She’s got me there.

  “At least I don’t have a dirty mouth like you,” I reply, ignoring her rebuke. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  “Ew,” she says, drawing back. “I don’t kiss my mother at all. That’s… gross.”

  Americans. They’re so… conflicted.

  It’s well after nine in the evening when we arrive at Brynterion, so it’s quiet. Half the staff have gone home, and the night staff are mostly busy with their duties. While I would love to try to impress Norah by walking her in the front door, giving her a grand tour of the castle, that runs the risk of drawing a great deal more attention to her visit than either of us are ready for.

  Duncan deposits us in the back, inside the courtyard by the stables.

  “Where are we going?” she asks again, this time less annoyed, more intrigued.

  I lead her into the stables past fifty stalls occupied by curious, noisy thoroughbreds.

  “They’re beautiful,” Norah whispers, knowing not to speak loudly lest she startle them.

  From the stables we enter the mudroom, and from there I lead her through a false door into the “hidden” halls and passages connecting every room, corridor, and chamber inside this massive, ancient fortress.

  “Are you taking me to the dungeon?” she quips, referencing the shadowy darkness and the scent of wet and mildew on the stone walls, ceilings, and floors. These halls have a dungeon’s feel to them, but the actual dungeon is much creepier than Norah might imagine.

  “Not yet,” I reply. “But don’t give me cause.”

  “Asshole.”

  The stairs leading to the third level are narrow and winding, the walls dripping with condensation. Sound carries up the space, our footsteps echoing, amplifying in the chill air. When we make the third floor, Norah is breathless. I lead her on at a quick pace, noting the cameras overhead that are certainly recording our presence here.

  Finally, we arrive at the entrance to my apartment. I pause at the door, letting Norah catch up.

  She comes alongside me, looking up at me oddly. “What is this?” she asks. “And why am I here?”

  I open the door, showing her in.

  My rooms don’t exactly fit the traditional idea of a royal residence. Aside from the heavily decorated ceilings and overabundance of molding, carved paneling, and complicated geometric designs made into the glowing hardwood floors beneath our feet, everything else is all my own. I favor a minimalist approach to interior decoration, or perhaps a “functional” approach is a better definition. If it doesn’t serve a purpose, I don’t want it cluttering my world.

  “Damn,” Norah says, spinning around in the room—my parlor, for lack of a better word. “This is cool.” She stops spinning when she sees the next room over, visible through a set of ornately carved wooden doors, set open.

  “My library,” I say. “Being a royal is boring. I have a lot of time to read.”

  Norah wanders into the library. I follow.

  She studies the shelves, scanning spines for titles. There’s everything in here from 16th-century cradle works to modern fiction. Lately I’ve been reading a lot of medieval history.

  “Fascinating,” Norah says, her voice low, contemplative. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a reader.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She shrugs, still inspecting. “I dunno. Preconceived notions, I guess. And I always heard royals were inbred dullards.”

  “Inbred… maybe,” I reply. “Dullards sometimes, but not always.”

  This is fun, but it’s not why she’s here.

  “We should get down to business,” I say. “I have a proposition for you that I think you might be interested in. I hope you’ll consider it.”

  I show Norah to a table at the far end of the library, pulling out a chair for her.

  “I’d like a drink,” I say, realizing I need one to prop up my courage. She may slap me again before I get through what I’m about to propose. “Would you like a drink?”

  She waves her hands, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. Apparently I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

  I pour two glasses of the best thirty-year-old Anglesey whiskey money can buy. This is the King’s Reserve, distilled and aged according to a recipe that’s three hundred years old by the only distillery in the country licensed to use the royal seal or claim the prestige of the name.

  Norah lifts her glass, taking a cautious sip. She takes a sip and then a deep breath, then halfway smiles. “That’s very good.”

  I give her another moment to accustom herself to the beverage before I get to the point. “I’d like for you to hear me out on this before you react, or freak out, or slap me in the face, or whatever you ultimately decide to do. And I mean hear me out all the way. Can you do that?”

  Norah frowns. “It depends on how wordy you are and how pretentious you sound while you’re telling me.”

  “Fair enough,” I respond. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. “So my father died last year—six months ago, to be precise. It’s law that a new king, his heir, must be crowned within a year of his death. My elder brother, Lloyd, is in line for that, and he’s currently serving as co-regent with our mother.”

  She already looks bored.

  “The thing is, while my brother is the new king for all intents and purposes, he’s out of the country in an unofficial capacity, and I’m being forced to step into his role—temporarily. It’s an unusual situation, and I can’t go into a lot of detail, but it’s a long-held custom in this country that the king must be a married man. If I’m going to take on the role even temporarily, as second son I have to demonstrate that I’m at least on the path toward marriage.”

  Norah’s eyes grow wide. She clenches her jaw tight.

  “Of course, it’s all very temporary and just for show,” I say, trying to reassure her. “As soon as my brother comes back, which will only be a few months from now, I can go back to being the invisible spare and no one will care about my relationship status.”

  “What does this—any of this—have to do with me?” Norah asks.

  “I’d like to put you forward as my girlfriend. Nothing more complicated than that. Except instead of being my girlfriend, you
just have to play the part. And you’ll be… well-compensated.”

  She’s looking at me like I have three heads.

  I lift my drink to my lips, hoping it gives me the resolve to finish this. “I’ll tell you everything you’ll need to do to fulfill your part, and then you name your price.”

  “Why me?” she asks. “You had a boat load of girls at your feet yesterday who would have paid you for the chance to be your girlfriend. Why me?”

  I’m glad she’s asked. It’s one of the first absolutely honest responses I can give her. “You’re different,” I say. “You’re not an obsequious sycophant trying to climb the royal ladder. You’re not interested in getting your name engraved in the Peerage Registry. And honestly, even though you think I’m an asshole—and rightly so—your manner and lack of shits about what I think is the most refreshing thing I’ve encountered in my whole life. I grew up with dukes and lords kissing my ass, treating me like… royalty. It’s good to just be treated like the asshole I am.”

  Norah regards me and my answer a long while before she responds. Her eyes glint like steel. Like hard diamonds—intelligent and knowing. When she does, it’s as if she’s gotten inside my head and read my thoughts. “That’s the first truthful thing you’ve said to me so far, isn’t it?”

  I don’t reply. Instead, I finish my drink and pour another. Then I continue, detailing exactly what this very big job entails, from the clothes she wears to the way she walks and speaks, to accompanying me to social and ceremonial events, to living inside the palace walls where we can provide security, to having every aspect of her personal life, her background, and her family and friends’ lives dissected, examined, and scrutinized by the press.

  “We’ve already done comprehensive backgrounds on you, your employers, your family. So far nothing has turned up. Can you think of anything you or someone close to you may have done that would be catastrophic if it came out in the press?”

  Norah shakes her head without pausing long on the question. “No, other than my father being stupid about money, or the fact that I had a one-night stand with a total fraud and conman, I can’t think of anything else.”