Royal Bastard: A Bad Boy Royal Romance

by Emilia Beaumont

  I took a nervous sip of my wine and gave him my best smile, hoping I didn’t have anything stuck in my teeth. Grant was a banker in Jacob’s company, and he sure loved to talk about his work. I had to admit, though, the date was going rather well.

  I met him at a classy restaurant; I was totally shocked by his appearance and desperately tried to hide it. He was tall and lanky, with a shock of red hair and glasses that kept sliding down his nose every time he moved his head. After dating Mr. Perfect (who turned out to be not-so-perfect and who’d come with his own costs to my battered heart) for two years, I was happy to give Grant a chance. And maybe someone like Grant, safe and nice, could be the man I had been looking for. If only I could get him to quit talking so much.

  “So that’s how mortgages work. Exciting, huh?”

  “Very,” I replied, keeping a smile on my face. I hoped there wasn’t a quiz later. I would fail miserably, considering I had zoned out nearly thirty minutes before as he droned on about variable interest rates. “You seem to have a passion for your job.”

  “I do,” he admitted with a sheepish smile as he took a sip of his water. “What about you? Jacob said that you’re a photographer.”

  “I am,” I said, tucking a curl behind my ear.

  “What’s your real job then?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, your profession,” he said, looking at me expectantly. “Surely you know the success rate of photographers. You can’t possibly mean to make a career of it… The odds are stacked against you, what with every arts and English graduate picking up their camera and thinking they can make a living out of it.”

  I swallowed then, fury racing through my head. Really? He thought I couldn’t make a career out of it? Who the hell did he think he was? I wasn’t naïve enough to think it wouldn’t be hard, but I was willing to put the work in, to build up a reputation, maybe even go into wedding photography—practically everyone got married, and some of them more than once. It would just take time, one step after the other. I was willing to pour my blood, sweat and tears into it.

  I opened my mouth to give him the what-for when a presence hovered over our table.

  “Excuse me?”

  I looked up to find a familiar pair of blue eyes staring back at me, and all the moisture in my mouth evaporated. I had to blink a couple of times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. What was in that glass of wine? But no, there he was, in the flesh. Prince Edward was standing beside our table, dressed casually in an open-necked shirt that matched his eyes and a pair of dark trousers that had my cheeks blushing as I thought about what I knew to be hidden underneath. His short, wavy hair was slicked back, and his friendly smile belied the hardness of his eyes as they stared at me. Oh boy, he’s furious at me for getting him arrested.

  “Are you the owner of this restaurant?” Grant asked, completely unaware of who stood at our table. “because my salmon is dry.”

  Edward’s eyes swung away from mine as he looked at the man who’d been boring me to pieces, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I hate to tell you this, old chum, but this here is my darling wife,” Prince Edward said, his voice ever so hoity-toity.

  “What?” I exclaimed, horrified as Grant’s face lost all colour.

  “Y-your wife?” Grant sputtered, looking at me. “But Jacob said you were single.”

  “I am,” I said, narrowing my gaze on the handsome, irritating man who was ruining my date. Okay, so he wasn’t ruining the date, but still he was making Grant sputter like a car running on its last legs. “This guy is delusional.”

  “She loves to play these little games,” the black sheep prince joked, squeezing Grant on the shoulder with his strong hand. “We’ve been looking for a partner you know, one to keep her satisfied. She’s a tiger in bed.”

  Oh my god. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I wanted to bury my face in my hands. Grant threw down his napkin and stood, looking at me like I had grown two heads. “I think this date is over,” he said stiffly.

  “No, wait,” I started as he walked away, glaring at the man who slid easily into the seat across from me. “Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t think we have formally met,” he said instead, sticking out his hand. “I am Edward.”

  “I don’t care who you are,” I hissed, my face red with embarrassment. “I am leaving.”

  His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, his fingers warm on my bare skin. I gasped at the initial contact, feeling my pulse skip a beat or two. “No, I can’t let you leave, not yet.”

  “What do you want?” I huffed, ignoring the fluttering of my pulse. He was making me feel weirdly anxious—it didn’t help that I couldn’t stop seeing the look on his face as he stared at me while fucking that other woman. “Look, I’m sorry you were arrested. I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

  “Well, since you brought it up, it was a particularly rough evening in the cells, so I believe you owe me a favour,” he said, giving me an easy smile. Oh my. I thought he was handsome just sitting there, but when he truly smiled, he was breath-taking. No wonder he was labelled as the bad boy royal. He certainly looked the part with his high, wide-set angular cheekbones and equally formidable jawline.

  Realising that I was staring at him, I looked down at my untouched dinner, feeling flustered. “I am so sorry.”

  “You didn’t cause me to get arrested,” he responded softly, his thumb caressing the tender skin of my wrist. The simple motion caused my internal thermostat to kick it up a notch. If this was what he could do with a simple caress, I would combust on the spot if he touched me anywhere else. But he was not going to touch me anywhere else… I had let this—whatever this was—go on for far too long.

  Wrenching my hand away, I grabbed my purse and opened it, throwing some notes on the table that would cover the expensive-ass meal that had gone completely wrong tonight.

  “I don’t care,” I forced out, standing. “Let’s just chalk it up to some weird, crazy night and forget we ever met.” I turned and walked away, keeping my head up until I left the restaurant. How had he known I was going to be there? It didn’t matter. I hoped never to see him again. And Grant—I definitely could never face Grant again.

  5

  Edward

  I watched as she stormed out of the restaurant, a hint of a smile on my face. Well, that had gone just as well as I could have planned for it to go.

  Standing, I walked out of the restaurant and back to the car that had brought me here. My royal guards, after the last few days, insisted on accompanying me, but at least they knew well enough to keep their distance and blend into the shadows. I climbed in and gave a nod to the driver before settling back.

  It paid to be a member of the royal family sometimes, and this was one of those times. After the debacle with my father, I made use of my last name and had one of the assistants quietly find out who my wayward photographer was. Within a few hours I had pretty much everything I needed to know.

  Rose Mathis, twenty-five years old and a budding photographer by trade. She was currently living with her parents, and the asshole from last night had been her boyfriend up until recently. How they found that out, well, I didn’t ask those types of questions; I just liked answers. And that one pleased me quite a bit. She also spent a year or so abroad and was now trying to establish herself as a nightclub photographer. Based on some of the photos from her trip that she’d posted online, though, I couldn’t help but think that she was going about her career all wrong. She took breath-taking pictures of scenery and landscapes—so much so that I’d stared at one until I’d lost track of time.

  After receiving my ultimatum, I thought about all the ways to improve my image. It was tempting to just up and disappear and forget about the whole lot of them, strike out on my own, but somehow I knew I couldn’t do that—it would cause more of a scandal, and I’d most likely be hounded for the rest of my days.

  Instead of my usual night out on the town, I had sat in my flat, in the dar
k, and thought of ideas. Then, one appeared straight out of thin air, it seemed, most likely helped along by my conversation with the person who’d helped me find out about Rose in the first place. The assistant had very helpfully found and supplied me with the name of the restaurant where she would be that night. How he found that out, I truly didn’t dare ask. It did make me simultaneously grateful and terrified that the country’s spy operation and intelligence organisation had that kind of power, but that was by the by. It was already creepy enough that I was trying to track her down. Though if I’d had a glass slipper and if perhaps my nickname wasn’t the bastard prince and instead was Prince Charming then things might’ve felt different; I just hoped she would understand once I explained what I needed from her.

  At the restaurant I was amused by the surprise on her face when she first caught a glimpse of me, but it quickly turned to frustration as I began to ruin what appeared to be a date. She didn’t look too upset—she was having a horrible time by my reckoning. Sadly, though, I wasn’t able to get to the part about helping each other out before she high-tailed it out of the restaurant.

  But that wouldn’t stop me. I needed some good press, a few pictures of me doing some good deeds and a fluff piece or two to go along with them. I needed a photographer, and I knew one. The trick was getting her to help me out. I knew she needed money, and money I currently had plenty of—until I was cut off, of course. She wanted what I had, and I wanted what she had—the ability to transform me into a golden boy, and if I could go by any of her spectacular photos, she could do it, no problem. I needed to show my father and my extended family that I could be the good guy, present them with a respectable image of the man they wanted me to be.

  The only problem was, I really didn’t want to fit into their mould. I wanted to be where I was most comfortable, and that was raising hell. I knew how to do that extremely well.

  “Hell,” I said softly, experiencing that sickening feeling you get when you know you have a big decision to make. Now or never, Ed. Shit or get off the royal pot!

  I should just tell them to go fuck themselves and fly solo, like I longed to do. I had a number of friends who would take me in if I asked them. I didn’t want to be king or royalty or anything. I just wanted to be Edward York, though I wasn’t even sure who that was anymore. What I did know was that I wasn’t the type to tap out without a fight. My mum had been a fighter, and I was going to be one, as well. If I walked away, I admitted defeat. I was made of stronger shit than that.

  Rubbing a hand over my face, I looked out the window. If I was going to go through with this and step into the confines of what my father expected me to be—a true prince, a gentleman, and everything that word entailed—then there was thing I knew for certain: I needed Rose.

  When I arrived back at my flat in the luscious neighbourhood that was Belgravia, I found Andrew waiting for me, his ever careful appearance reminding me of my father. “What do you want?” I asked as I crossed over to the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer.

  “I’m checking on you,” he said, clearing his throat, “after what Father said.”

  I chuckled and popped the tops, handing him one before taking a swig of my own. “I’m fine. Another fun family meeting on the books, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Edward,” Andrew sighed. He placed the sweating bottle onto the table without taking a sip, then pulled his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his hands on it. “Why don’t you drop the tough guy act and talk to me?”

  Walking over to the living room, I plopped down on the sofa, propping my feet up on the coffee table in front of me. “You know why I don’t talk to you anymore, Andrew? It’s because I know you are going to run back and tell Father every damn thing I say. It’s always been that way, ever since we were kids.”

  Andrew joined me in the living room and sat down in the chair opposite, weariness in his expression. I couldn’t help but think that maybe my brother was caught in the middle of all this. Andrew and I had never been that close, especially in the last couple of years, yet he was always the one my father sent whenever I got into trouble. Or maybe he offered to go; I wasn’t sure and I never asked. Still, there had been no brotherly bonding between us, both of us being, well, so different. I hated the royal front he exuded and everything that came with it. He hated fun, alcohol and loose women. It was a lose-lose situation.

  “I’m not tattling on you, Edward,” he finally said, picking the bottle up again and wiping the opening with the handkerchief. I doubted he was going to drink from it; he just needed something to occupy his hands. “You do a pretty good job of exposing what you think of all of us, or what you get up to yourself. We just have to look at the tabloids for blow-by-blow updates on your scandals. But tell me, why didn’t you tell Father to piss off? It’s not like you to ask for a second chance… or third or fourth.”

  “Edward, I would starve,” I sighed. Okay, so I was being slightly melodramatic, but it was partly true. Father did have me by the short-and-curlies in one area of my life: money. Without his funds, I was sunk. Maybe it just meant I should’ve gone with my gut and struck out for myself.

  “You wouldn’t starve,” Andrew replied with a hint of a grin on his face. “Maybe you’d become stone cold sober, but you would not starve.”

  I laughed, saluting my half-brother with my beer. He was right. I wouldn’t starve. “Touché, brother, touché.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Andrew asked, reclining on the chair, looking a little more relaxed. I almost slid off the sofa when I saw him take a small sip of the beer. “Do you even have a plan? Please don’t tell me you’re just going to wing it. Father will be expecting you to really commit to turning over a new leaf.”

  I thought about the photographer who had stomped away an hour earlier and smiled. “I have a plan, brother. Never fear.”

  “Shit,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “That’s what I am scared of.”

  “Oh, just you wait and see.” My smile turned into a determined grin, then I tilted my head back and guzzled the rest of my beer in a few swallows. I wasn’t beyond asking for help, especially when it dealt with money and my livelihood. And Rose Mathis was my ticket to getting back into my father’s good graces. I just hoped she wasn’t going to be pissed off for too long about me ruining her date. The dude she was with was all wrong for her anyway—at least that was my impression. I could have pushed him over with a flick of my finger.

  From our few brief encounters, I had an inkling that Rose Mathis wasn’t the type of woman I was used to dealing with. She would need to be wooed, and I certainly couldn’t treat her like the one-night-stand type of girl that usually graced my bed. Rose was a girl-next-door type that I largely stayed far away from. They were all about fairy tales and happy endings, and I definitely wasn’t the type to ever think about that sort of thing, especially not when my own life was in such a mess.

  Of course, there was another, more sensible option: I could hire a professional to help me out. That would be what my father would want me to do, but I hadn’t done what he wanted in a very long time, so why break a habit of a lifetime? Besides, I knew that if I did hire an industry professional, my name and my plan would be plastered all over the front page the next day—somehow it would get out, no matter how professional they were. Best to go with someone with no connections, no ulterior motives… and the fact that Rose had a pretty revealing picture of me from the club and hadn’t yet gone public with it was telling. I felt like I could trust her above anyone else. All I had to do now was get her to listen to me long enough make the offer, without her storming off again.

  “Mother wasn’t too pleased that Father gave you another shot,” Andrew continued, oblivious to my thoughts. “She wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the day.”

  “She wants me to fail,” I muttered, my mood shifting to dark as I thought about my stepmother. She’d hated me since the day I’d arrived, and it didn’t take a genius to work out it had everything to do with my fat
her’s affair with my mum (though I’m sure my lowbrow antics helped top up the levels of scorn she liked to direct at me).

  I didn’t know much about my mum and father’s relationship. My mum hadn’t offered much insight into what had happened, which was understandable considering my tender age at the time, and I hadn’t asked many questions. I wished I had so I could understand what had gone on between them. From the tabloid articles I’d read on the subject (because there was no way I was going to ask the future king about his past affair) it was a hot mess of a scandal back in the day, which had resurfaced all over again when my mum passed. I did know one thing, though. My father had made sure we were looked after—not that my mum splashed the cash around or went overboard with it; I think she wanted me to grow up away from all the wealth—but if he ever came to visit her before her death, I never knew.

  “I can’t disagree with that sentiment,” Andrew said, taking another tiny sip of his beer and grimacing as if it were wine and the grapes had turned sour.

  “You’re such a snob,” I said, laughing at his scrunched-up nose.

  He stood, his eyes on me. “That may be so. But I’m a snob who would dearly love for you to prove Mother wrong. Good night, Edward. Do let me know if you need help. I know you won’t come to me for help, but the offer is there.”

  “Night, Andrew,” I said, feeling that my brother had earned a healthy dose of respect for his parting words. I was going to show my evil stepmother—and the world—that I could do this. But most importantly, I was going to show my father that I could finally make him proud to have a bastard son, that I was more than just the black sheep, the half-breed of the royal family. I was going to prove to them that for once in my life, I was better than that. So what if my original goal was the money and the lifestyle that I’d become accustomed to? It was, in a way, a means to an end, and it gave me the motivation I needed.