by Avery Wilde
Royal Bastard
Avery Wilde
Contents
Copyright
Royal Bastard
Blurb
Prologue
Epigraph
1. Edward
2. Rose
3. Edward
4. Rose
5. Edward
6. Rose
7. Edward
8. Rose
9. Edward
10. Rose
11. Edward
12. Rose
13. Edward
14. Rose
15. Edward
16. Rose
17. Edward
18. Rose
19. Edward
20. Rose
21. Edward
22. Rose
23. Edward
24. Rose
25. Edward
26. Epilogue - Rose
Bad Boy’s Wedding
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
About Avery
Also by Avery Wilde
Copyright © 2016 by Avery Wilde
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Royal Bastard
Cinderella met her Prince Charming and lost a slipper. I met the Royal Bastard and he stole my heart.
The Bastard Prince
I, Edward George Alexander York, am third in line for the British throne, but who needs that kind of responsibility? Not me.
I’m the outcast. The black sheep. The bastard. It’s my duty to live up to my notorious reputation—emptying the country’s coffers, getting hammered, and generally having myself a jolly good time sowing my royal oats.
It’s only when I try to do the right thing that I get arrested for my efforts. I was a fool, playing the knight in shining armour, attempting to rescue a gorgeous curvy damsel in distress… the same woman who caught me on camera with my pants down.
Despite my heroics, my father has laid down the gauntlet and demanded that I buck my ideas up and improve my bad boy image, or be disowned for good.
Never one to back away from a challenge, I sought out the one person who owed me. Rose Mathis may end up being my saving grace, and though she said my charms would never work on her, I am determined to make her mine.
The English Rose
We both know what I saw. The incriminating photo is currently stored on my camera. A glorious picture of a Royal Arse, naked and in full view. If you take your eyes off his steel buns for one moment, you’ll see Prince Edward drilling into his latest conquest.
I wasn’t going to sell the photo of him in the act—even though it would cause an almighty scandal and solve all my money problems. I didn't even know who he was when I took that damn picture, never mind that he would actually come to my rescue mere hours later when an ex of mine got a little handsy.
But now Prince Edward thinks I owe him one. And as a photographer with no proper job, I can’t turn this opportunity of a lifetime down.
All that was expected of me was to take a few photos, help him get back into his father’s good books and ramp up some positive publicity. Yet when he gets down on one knee, I can’t help but believe that the fairy-tale illusion we’ve created for the rest of the world is real.
There’s only one problem: I never expected to fall in love with the Prince. And though I have very little chance at winning his heart, I won't give up hope.
We shall have our happily ever after.
Please note that the book is written in British English. Additionally, you’ll find that I have indulged a bit and have used some artistic license in the organisation of the line of succession. And while the story is set in England it is not directly based upon the current Monarchy, and should therefore be considered as a work of fiction.
Happy reading!
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Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;
Being vex’d a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet
1
Edward
The shrill sound of a radio careened through my foggy brain and pierced the sections that were in blissful sleep right until that fucking minute.
An unseeing hand slid over my stomach and cut off the infernal sound, the fingers playing on my abs for a moment before they drifted away. I felt the weight on the other side of the bed shift and then finally roll out, and it was only then that I opened my eyes.
Well, open wasn’t the word; instead I cracked them to see if I was going to be blinded by the harsh light of another day. When none split open my skull, I allowed my eyes to open fully, ignoring the swimming feeling of my aching head as I looked around. Hell, I didn’t recognise a single thing. The room itself was small. The kitchen, bedroom and living room were all visible from my vantage point on the bed. And given the pastel colouring on the walls and the thong that was currently draped over the television in front of me, it was most decidedly a woman who owned this tiny studio flat. But who? Fucked if I could remember.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I turned toward the bathroom door, the sound of teeth being hastily brushed grating on my rapidly pounding head. Everything was so loud—even the rustle of the duvet upon the bed made me want to cover my ears.
The door to the bathroom was ajar, and as my eyes adjusted I finally saw my fellow bed-mate. She was tall, her willowy body encased in a tight, navy blue dress, her blonde hair hastily thrown into a messy ponytail as she glared at herself in the mirror. She must have felt my stare because she glanced over at me, her red eyes telling me that she didn’t feel any fucking better than I did. “I have to be at the airport in ten minutes.”
Now it was coming back to me, and I waited for the snapshots to develop fully in my mind. The flight attendant who was based in London. The club, aptly named: Raunchy. And lots of hard liquor—probably too much even for me. It was another hell of a night on the books.
“I’m sorry, but you have to leave.”
I realised she was looking at me expectantly. The last thing I wanted to do was move, let alone leave the comfort of the bed.
“You really don’t want me to leave,” I said with a slight groan, but I also flashed her a dazzling smile. “You go on, I’ll be fine right here.”
She grabbed the covers with a no-nonsense glare and whipped them off
the bed as if she were performing a magic trick. And I suppose she was in a way, as she revealed my cock standing to attention—full morning glory.
“Ta da!” I muttered. “Come here, come back to bed, and I’ll make it disappear.”
I could tell she wanted to laugh, but her mood was as grey as an English sky in winter. “Eugh. Get up, right now. I don’t have time for this.”
I let out a curse and forced my body to sit up. “Your loss, sweetheart. You’re going to regret saying that,” I muttered. But she was already busying herself, shoving items into her purse and pretty much ignoring me.
The wave of nausea that followed had me wishing to hell that she hadn’t set that damn alarm clock. Somehow, though, I got myself out of the bed and gathered my clothes, shoving my legs back into the jeans I’d worn the night before. “So, flying the friendly skies this morning?”
She rushed by me; her heels clicking against the floor had me gritting my teeth. “Listen, I don’t want to make this any more awkward. It was fun, really, but I need you to get out.”
“You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“I don’t care if you’re the king of England, I can’t miss my flight. So, that means you and your woodpecker need to go.”
I frowned, not used to being hurried out of any woman’s bed in the middle of the morning—it was normally me who was the first to flee the scene. Thank god I didn’t remember anything about her, because it wasn’t going to be worth the time to forget it.
Shrugging my arms into my shirt, I slipped on my shoes and stalked to the door, my mood dark. Fuck her. She obviously didn’t know who I was, and I had half thought of turning back and educating her on the very big mistake she was making, just so I could see the look on her face.
But what with my splitting headache, it just wasn’t worth the effort. The knob turned easily under my hand, and I left without so much as a word, choosing the stairs over the lift so I could get out of there faster. She was just another nameless face I would forget before I had my first drink of the day.
I exited into the sunlight and slid my sunglasses from my shirt pocket, wincing as I put them on my face. It took me a moment to get my bearings before I saw that I wasn’t far from the official residence of my father. Now wouldn’t that be fucking hilarious to wander over there like this, I thought, with a hangover and last night’s smoke and the smell of sex still clinging to my clothes? No doubt I would get some lecture on how I had once again disappointed him and the family. Screw that. I would rather get thrown out by the hot stewardess again.
With a shrug, I started down the pavement, my hands in my pockets. Even walking along the road alone would’ve had my father sweating bullets. But I’d managed to ditch my royal protection last night, as I invariably did. They couldn’t keep an eye on me twenty-four seven, and they were used to it, anyway. And it’s not like anyone would give a damn. I was, after all, the Black Prince, the disappointment, the screw-up, oh and my favourite: The Bastard.
You name it, I had heard it all straight from my father’s mouth. I, Edward George Alexander York, was technically third in line to the royal seat. But did I want it? Did I care? Fuck no. I would rather be tortured than actually be allowed to run a country, regardless of how much pussy it would grant me. And hell, even if the entire line was wiped out by some damn plague or something, I figured I would be exiled before they let me wear the crown. Not that I gave a shit. I had no interest in appeasing my father, grandfather, or anyone else for that matter. They could all go to hell.
A black cab came into view, and I stuck my hand out, waving it down, opening the door and climbing in. “Belgravia,” I growled, settling back on the seat.
The cab pulled out into morning traffic, and I stretched out my legs as far as I could, the swirling feeling of my stomach making it hard to be in the overheated cab. The last thing I needed to do was puke in the back of this thing. I could see the headlines now and the rage in my father’s face as he threw the paper down, shaking his head at how disappointed he was at me. He would then try to fix it and order someone to write a retraction or then command me to issue an apology for my deplorable actions. I hated it, I fucking hated the fact that I had to account for every single thing I did in my entire life. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t just leave me alone, disown me or something so I could live my life the way I wanted to live it.
The cab slowed, and I reached in my pocket, handing the driver more than enough to cover the cost before jumping out, sighing loudly as the rush of paparazzi started toward me, hurling out questions. Didn’t they have better things to do with their time?
“Give us a comment on your good news, Prince Edward?”
“Should we expect an engagement of sorts from you?”
“What?” I growled. I made my way to my flat, the door to the building ten feet ahead, but I would have to get through the sea of reporters first. “With whom?”
“The tall mystery blonde of course,” the reporter smirked, her micro-recorder shoved into my face. “She’s a commoner, but again that’s not something we wouldn’t expect from you, after all.”
“Yeah, when’s the big day?”
They always did this, always made a mountain out of a molehill every chance they got. But I gave the reporter a killer smile despite the pounding of my head, and made sure to look in the cameras that had swirled toward me. “Now, that’s not a bad idea. It would surely piss off the king, wouldn’t it?”
The entire audience seemed to pause for a moment, not used to the fact that I had just blasted the ruler of our country—my grandfather—on national TV. Then the questions started back up, but I had reached the door and my royal guards appeared out of nowhere, pushing them back. The doorman was already opening the door for me. “Edward,” he started, tipping his hat toward me and closing the door on the continued noise coming from the reporters. “Late night?”
“You can say that again,” I said, running a hand through my hair with an easy grin on my face. “What’s shaking, Jim?”
Jim shook his head, the brass buttons on his suit gleaming in the pale light. There was a time when Jim had acted like every other damn person who came in contact with royalty, addressing me by the titles I loathed. But over the years I’d finally got him to just think of me a regular guy, and not a prince. We had come a long way. “Nothing much, sir.” Though he still clung to formality on occasion.
I nodded and headed to the lift; if I didn’t get some paracetamol and water in me soon, I was sure my head was going to explode. As the lift arrived, I started to regret my earlier words. I should’ve just kept my big mouth shut. But so what, it’s not like they were expecting anything more from the bastard. I didn’t know why I liked to poke the beast, per se, but I could almost bet I would be getting a visit—or more likely a summons—this afternoon for that very comment. I just hoped they waited until after I’d had a good nap. I might be more pleasant then, I thought.
“This has to stop, Edward! You cannot call out the king of England during your morning walk of shame!”
I was in my father’s study, lounging in one of the heavy leather chairs that flanked his formidable desk. The impressiveness of the room, with its dark mahogany and priceless antiques, had worn off me long ago; I’d been in this room for a good telling-off far too many times to count.
My brother, or half-brother, really, if we’re going to get technical, and older by only a few months, Andrew Louis Drayton York, sat in the other, his posture ramrod straight. Where I was the black sheep, Andrew was the startlingly white one—not a bloody blemish on his fleece. He’d been groomed for this life; his crisp suit and perfect hair were in stark contrast to my two-day-old wrinkled khakis and the polo shirt I’d hastily pulled on after my summons. Just as I had predicted, the summons had been direct and to the point. I was to get my ass over to the palace as fast as I could before I was dragged there by the guards.
“Oh, come on, it was a joke. I didn’t call grandfather out,” I finally said,
my mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. “All I did was casually make mention of him. Besides, any PR is good PR, right?”
My father turned around, and I was struck at how much we looked alike, with our dark hair and burning blue eyes; there was very little chance that I wasn’t his son. Well, his illegitimate son, but still his son. Right now, though, I was pretty sure he was wishing otherwise. He looked like he would kill me.
“Then explain this,” Father said.
I caught the afternoon edition of the Daily Herald he’d thrown at me. The pages unfurled upon my lap, and I shuffled them back together to see the front page. Oh shit.
“Prince Edward Shows His Royal Behind” was the title, with a blurred-out picture of me mooning the camera. I cleared my throat and scanned the article, reading the same old fluff that the press loved to print about me.
“Prince Edward was in superb form last night after being spotted outside Club Raunchy with his arm draped around a tall mystery blonde. After being asked about the king’s most recent commentary regarding the proposed law citing public nudity, the mischievous Prince proceeded to show us what he truly thought about the proposal.”
“Father, I didn’t—” I started, not really sure what to say. There was no way I was going to worm myself out of that one. Yeah, I’d been drunk, but that excuse wouldn’t wash with the two men in the room.
“You didn’t think, again,” he shouted, shoving a hand through his salt-and-pepper coloured hair. “Dammit, Edward, you are not a commoner who can show his pale behind whenever he feels like it. You are my son, a member of the royal family!”
“So, what you’re trying to tell me is that I need to get a tan?”
Father sighed. “I give up…”
“Well, that’s not a surprise,” I muttered, throwing the paper onto the floor. My father could pretend all he wanted that I was a member of this family, but in reality, I was far from it. I was forever thought of as the dark stain on the pure bloodline, a mix of royalty and commoner that would taint the pool if I ever thought about procreating. Which his wife, my stepmother, the Duchess of Clarence, liked to remind me every chance she got when we were in a room together, always insinuating—or sometimes after a sherry or two coming right out with it—saying that I did not belong.
