The Royal Rake (Royal Romances Book 3)

by Molly Jameson

  “Would you be Leopold the Rescuer, then? The Flier?”

  “The Superfluous, I believe. Yes, King Leo the Superfluous. I’m only fourth in line, you see, and that’s until Jamie and his eventual bride start producing bouncing baby heirs and heiresses to the title,”

  “Do you mind it very much?”

  “Not at all. I only get tired of being asked about it. As if my childhood dream was to become a king. I wanted to be a pilot, and that’s what I became,”

  “I’m sorry I gave you shit about the Coast Guard. I have a chip on my shoulder about that. It was the only question I missed in AP History in high school…name the branches of the military. I got Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines and National Guard but couldn’t come up with Coast Guard. It’s been a few years, but I hold a grudge.”

  “I’ll be careful to keep on your good side,” he said.

  “It’s safe to say you are on my good side forever since you just saved my business with a load of free publicity,” Evie said.

  “Were you in dire need of saving?”

  “No, King Leo the White Knight. I didn’t need rescuing at all. My shop, however, has taken a hit since that artisanal coffee joint opened,” she said.

  “Prickly are we? About coffee?”

  “They have bespoke coffee beans,” she said, eyes narrowed.

  “What are bespoke beans? Are they magical, as in Jack and the Beanstalk?”

  “I have no idea, but I hate them just the same. They were on the road to taking out Thimble before you turned up looking all gorgeous and famous,” she said.

  “Gorgeous, eh?”

  “You know what you look like. It’s no use my denying it,” she said.

  “At least we can agree on that—Evelyn, was it? I noticed you didn’t ask for a picture with me,” he said.

  “It’s Evie, actually, and no, I didn’t. I should have, though. If I’d been thinking at all, I would have. I could’ve tweeted it and posted it to Instagram to whip up a social media frenzy about my shop. I’ll post about it of course, but a photo would have been clever,”

  “You act as if you can’t take one now.”

  “You’re not in my shop. If you’re not at Thimble posing with a teacup or a muffin, what’s the point?”

  “Apart from having a snapshot of my obviously gorgeous royal visage?”

  “When you say visage, it makes you sound—“

  “Stuffy?”

  “About three hundred years old,” she finished, “so it’s a good thing that your visage is pretty as hell,” she said.

  “I’m not certain you’re permitted to use hell and visage in the same sentence.”

  “I’m living on the edge here. I accosted royalty and forced you to sit in on a speed dating tea party. I think I can risk saying ‘hell’ in front of you. You’re not that delicate,” she said.

  Evie couldn’t help smiling. It was a shame this guy was clever and laid-back and fun, and, of course, pretty as hell. Since he was, you know, completely off limits. As in, there was probably a law or an edict on the books prohibiting any individual with direct hereditary accession to the throne from shagging random Americans.

  “I don’t rescue kittens, just in case the preciousness and heroism were about to make you faint—I know along with the pretty face all that can be devastating.”

  “What do you rescue?”

  “Drunks, mostly. People who go on boats with too much beer and too few life vests. People who get lost and have to call emergency services because they can’t find their way. And people who are really, appallingly stupid and think they can swim across rivers after a few pints.”

  “You’re harsh. Remind me not to call on you when I go drunk swimming. You’ll blab to all your friends that I’m a moron.”

  “If you go drunk swimming, you’re a complete plonker. Your friends already know.”

  “My friends probably think I’m boring. Like, I thought this tea party matchmaking thing was the answer to fighting coffee shops and Tinder and all the ways technology and modern culture are leaving people like me behind.”

  “How are you left behind?”

  “Not me. The tearoom. Bakeries. Little quaint shops like that where people used to have tea breaks and lunches and now it’s hard to stay afloat…”

  “You said that you were being left behind.”

  “Yeah, well, what was in that drink you gave me? It tasted like cranberry juice, but it packs a punch. I’m woozy, and everything is warm and golden and gorgeous.”

  “That’s just the firelight and me, lass. It was cranberry juice, nothing more.”

  “You mean I’m not even a little drunk?”

  “Not unless one sip of beer and a glass of juice got you pissed,” he said.

  “So maybe I’m overtired from all the—tea party planning.”

  “Or perhaps you’re fine.”

  “I’m out of my element here. I’m not used to sitting in bars with men, much less princes. I figured I felt relaxed because I had that drink.”

  “It’s my very expensive manners. I put everyone at ease. It’s part of the training,” he said.

  “Think a lot of yourself, don’t you.”

  “Well, in the last hour you’ve told me I was gorgeous and pretty and three hundred years old, which I suppose means I remind you of the sexy immortal vampires you Americans seem to fancy. Who could blame me for thinking well of myself?”

  “You don’t remind me even remotely of a vampire, fictional or otherwise.”

  “They’re not real, you know,” Leo said in a stage whisper.

  “Well, don’t go and ruin the fantasy for me. I mean, before you said that, I was totally counting on hooking up with an immortal while I’m in England.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “The tea room just fits me like I was made for it. I can’t imagine wanting to do anything else. So I’m thinking, probably forever.”

  “Then I’m happy to be able to help. When we’re finished here, I’ll have a photo by your shop sign and you can post it anywhere you like. Help you along a bit, wish you the best of Britain and all that.”

  “Thank you. I feel like I should apologize for exploiting you or something.”

  “I wouldn’t think you were very clever if you didn’t take the opportunity to grow your business. If a dancing bear turned up at your shop, surely you’d take photos to show around.”

  “I’d call animal control. And PETA. I would not allow the bear to be forced to perform for others—but I wouldn’t want him to maim the customers either,” she said.

  “So if I promise not to maim anyone, and I promise that I perform wherever I go, will you make free to have a photo?”

  “Why are you trying to convince me to take advantage of you?”

  “I’m not. I want to help you. I thought your Tinder tea party was appalling, but you seem a nice enough girl and if I lend my pretty royal visage to promote your shop, perhaps in future you won’t resort to such horrible ideas. Put the egg timer away and enjoy life.”

  “I enjoy my life very much, thanks. I would prefer to keep financially solvent, hence the singles party.”

  “No one’s going to a tea party on the pull, Evelyn.”

  “If they suspect you’ll be there hunting for a princess they will.”

  “What is it about princesses? I suppose the children’s shows make it seem stupendous, but, really, whomever any of us marries has to assume our titles so it’s not like if I married, say, Audrey that she’d ever become Princess Audrey.”

  “What? That’s exactly how it works! She gets to be a princess and have a tiara and also talking animal sidekicks who clean the cottage. Have you not seen Disney movies?”

  “There aren’t any enchanted animals at the Buck. Only a very frightening press supervisor called Smithpeters who could make you wee in your trousers with a single glare.”

  “All right, I’ll concede the animals, but
what about the princess thing? What would they call Audrey?”

  “She’d be Audrey, the Princess Leopold, Countess of Basingstoke.”

  “Wait—Princess Leopold?”

  “Yes. It’s how the hereditary titles work. If Jamie marries Astrid as my parents intend, my sister in law will be known as Crown Princess Astrid in Sweden but Princess James in the UK.”

  “Ugh. That’s another fantasy shot to hell. Poor old Audrey, spending the rest of her life being called Princess Leopold, which sounds like a lousy drag queen stage name.”

  “Thank you for that. Quite flattering. You couldn’t at least have said that it sounded like a tremendously sophisticated stage name for a burlesque review?”

  “Nope. You already promised me a photo, so I don’t need to butter you up.”

  “Right, then. You’re direct and—“

  “Scrappy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I guess it’s not a word over here. It means something like feisty like I’m a fighter, and I don’t give up. It’s what my mom called me when I was a kid.”

  “That was your nickname?”

  “Says the man whose endearing childhood nickname was, like, the Duke of Basingstoke.”

  “The Earl, thank you very much. The Earl of Basingstoke. You really must repatriate more thoroughly. I referred to Princess Leopold as being Countess of Basingstoke, and everyone knows that Dukes marry duchesses while countesses are married to earls.”

  “Trust me, dude, not everyone knows that. Where I come from? Not a whole lot of that shit going on. Although there was a girl in my class named Diamond and one named Neveah.”

  “Excuse me?” Leo said

  “Neveah is Heaven spelled backward,” she said.

  “How monstrously clever of someone to figure that out and render it a name of some sort. You people are so resourceful,” he said with a snort.

  “I didn’t say it was a great name, okay? I was named after a soap opera character my mom liked, Evelyn Stanhope. She was some social climbing fashion model; I don’t know. I guess you were named after someone like King Leopold-Augustus the Amazing.”

  “That sounds like a sideshow attraction. No, but I was called after ancestors. Most of the better ancestors were taken already, as my parents have a large family, and the names started to run out. I’m Leopold Charles Alexander. Always wondered why they didn’t put the Alexander first as it’s a better name.”

  “I don’t think so. I think Leopold sounds very regal,” she said, “Okay, truth is, in school, we used to sing a song about ‘Leo the lion is the king of the jungle’, and then we’d all run in a circle roaring at each other and that’s what I think of, I’m sorry to say!”

  “Right. Then perhaps tomorrow I’ll roar at you at the Roman Baths,” he said archly.

  “What?”

  “I stopped in at Bath to get Mother some of the spa lotions and things from the Thermae Bath Spa, but they were closed when I arrived in town. I’m staying over so we may as well take the waters while we’re here. I’m quite sure it’s what my ancestors would have done, though that lot would have found a willing barmaid to accompany them instead of a tea pimp.”

  “If the pimp’s a woman, I believe we’re called madams. And barmaids aren’t exactly thick on the ground in modern day Bath. We madams have to work for a living, though, and I’m not closing the shop the day after royalty turns up there. I’ll have customers stopping in all day just to hear the story and see where you sat.”

  “Will they photograph the divine cushion where the royal arse reposed?”

  “If they buy three scones I’ll let them sit there. Right where your butt was,”

  “I feel so dirty,” he said.

  “As you should,” she said.

  “Have you been to take the waters before?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Sacrilege. A proper trip to Bath isn’t complete without it. You have to drink the repulsive sulfurous waters at the Pump Room and soak in the spa. How long did you say you’ve lived here?”

  “A couple of years. I’ve been busy, though, with shoring up the flagging business and, you know, raising my cats.”

  “I think as a member of the ruling family, it is my duty to remedy that oversight,” he said.

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I’m a sort of public relations figure for the kingdom, as are my brothers and sisters, and I would be remiss in my duty of showing the best of Britain to a foreigner—a resident alien, no less--if I allowed this travesty to continue. The historic value of the Roman baths and the museum alone—“

  “Fine, fine, you have me convinced! I’ll go along tomorrow, and you can educate me in the wonders of your kingdom,” she laughed.

  It wasn’t like she was going to turn down a date with royalty, right? One of these days, she might have a granddaughter to tell the story to, about her day at the hot springs with the hot prince. She’d leave out the bit where he was just being nice and acting out of nationalistic pride. Evie made a mental note to call her part-time worker Heather and see if she could cover the shop the next day. Then her eyes slid back to Leopold, who, frankly, was an incredible view. The rakish hair falling across his forehead had to be on purpose, she told herself. No one was that effortlessly devastating. Then he insisted on walking her home. And he smiled. When that man smiled, she felt like she’d been run over by a truck.

  “I live above the shop. It’s just over the road,” she protested, “and as you pointed out, I’ve only had two glasses of cranberry juice, so I’m not drunk walking.”

  “I never said you were incapable of finding your way home. I only said I was walking you to the door. You can use it as an excuse to take a picture of me posing with an empty teacup or the like. Boost your sales,”

  “Fine,” she said, secretly pleased he wanted to walk her to her door.

  Leo opened the pub door for her, offered his arm, “No, I’m good. I won’t fall,” she said diffidently, feeling a little embarrassed that he expected her to hold his arm, “I’m not in a ball gown and heels or anything.”

  “As you like,” he said.

  Leo reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a blue scarf. It was so long that she thought for a moment, as he kept withdrawing more and more length, that he was doing some sort of magic trick. Then he set a hand on her shoulder to stop her walking, and he wound the blue scarf around and around her neck. It was so impossibly soft that she wanted to pet it, and it was warm from being in his pocket. It smelled of him—leather, light bay rum style cologne and rich prince, she thought with a silly grin. She stroked the scarf once and then thanked him.

  “I doubt you’d accept my coat since you wouldn’t even take my arm. The muffler seemed a good compromise.”

  “It’s beautiful. And warm. Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

  “My sister in law, Carrie, made that. Cashmere blended with something—she has a yarn shop and knows all about---fibers and things. Whereas I apparently have reached the limits of my knowledge,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh.

  Evie fingered the fringe at the end of the scarf. She felt that there was something impossibly intimate about wearing his scarf, breathing in his scent—even the echo of their matching footsteps on the empty road moved her somehow. He was handsome. He’d turned up at just the right moment to reverse her fortunes and potentially save her shop. He had asked her to go on a tour of historic Bath tomorrow. These were all boons, all amazing luck, but she found herself wanting to cry. Tears choked her throat, and she couldn’t even speak. She just walked dumbly beside him until they reached Thimble. The string of white fairy lights in the window glowed warmly as she fumbled for her keys. She opened the door and, blinking furiously, Evie whispered a thank you.

  “What was that, now?”

  “Thank you for everything. Your highness,” she said too quietly.

  “I still can’t hear you. You spoke quite forcefully ear
lier, and now I can’t make out what you’re saying. Try again,” he said with a wry smile.

  He stooped to lean closer to her. He was quite tall, which she’d known intellectually, but since he didn’t seem to loom over her in the way some men did, she hadn’t felt the effect of his height—as if he had made himself unassuming somehow until this moment. Now Leo bent and very softly kissed her cheek. She felt herself blush as he drew back.

  “What were you trying to say?”

  “I was going to thank you, but now you’ve kissed me, so it seems weird to thank you for that. So basically I’m dying of embarrassment because I’ve been rescued and then kissed by a prince and now all I can think of is why was I so stupid that I didn’t turn my head when you kissed my cheek so I could have kissed you?” she blurted out.

  “Shall we have another go at it then?” he offered.

  Evie reached out and pushed the lock of hair off his forehead, “That was making me crazy,” she said.

  “In a good way or a bad way?”

  “Both. As for having another go…you only regret the chances you didn’t take, right?”

  “I suppose,”

  “It’s true. There was some study on the news that found, at the end of life, people only regret—oh screw it—“

  Evie stood on tiptoe and kissed him right on the lips.

  Chapter Two

  He didn’t expect her to kiss him. He was teasing when he offered her another go because she was so flustered and it was sort of cute. Then she began babbling about dead people and their regrets, and he became a bit confused, which he tended to do when she went on about something. Each time he thought he had figured her out, she surprised him. At first, Leo had believed this teashop girl to be a clueless idealist who wanted to make a go of an old-fashioned tearoom in the modern world. Then he figured out she was cleverer and more opportunistic than that, and he concluded from the conversation that she was defensive and probably hated men. Until he walked her home and she’d looked at him like he was something magical simply because he’d offered her his muffler. And then she’d gone and kissed him.