There she was, one hand gripping the lapel of his coat, her lips soft, clinging to his. Perhaps she wasn’t aware, but, in Prince Leopold’s not inconsiderable experience, this isn’t how people kiss. People kissed after flirting and dancing and a quantity of alcohol and before going up to a room together or finding a private spot. They didn’t kiss cold sober on a winter street, out in the open in front of God and everybody. They didn’t kiss sweetly, fondly as if it were the natural thing to do, an extension of talking, another form of communication.
He would have put it down to her being an American, but he’d been with Americans before. Of course, he had because no one was nuttier for princes than the Americans. Not one of them had been—what was the word chasing around in his addled brain? Affectionate. This woman, this tea shop girl, acted like she cared for him. It put him off, made him want to rescind his invitation to take the waters on the morrow. Who wanted to spend time with some clingy girl making sheep’s eyes at one all day? Certainly not Leo.
She stepped back and looked up at him expectantly as if she were waiting for a score from the judges. It was all he could do to stop himself from wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. It was like she had left an imprint on him and it was disturbing. He’d dodged the unwanted attentions of women—usually older ones—before, but never like this. Never someone who seemed to hope so hard that he’d like her back.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“Fine, why?”
“You look like you’re…not okay,” she said.
“I reckon I’m a mite hungover. I was on a stag weekend in the country…which was more of a fox hunt and drinks party than anything else,” he said.
“You murdered an innocent fox?”
“No, I was on the cricket pitch while they were off hunting. A few of us take a dim view of the pastime and prefer to clobber one another on the court as men should.”
“How progressive of you. Let me have one photo of you then and I’ll let you go. Sounds like you need to sleep it off.”
“Just so?” Leo asked, standing beside the gilt lettering in the window that read Thimble Tea Room & Bakery.
“Hmmm, try crossing your arms. No, no, too confrontational. Smile a bit, not too much. Hands in your pockets? Oh! Put on the scarf. It adds a nice splash of blue, goes with my blue trim and door.”
“That was always my intention, to match the tea shop,” he said wryly, “is this adequate?”
Leopold lounged back against the window, shook his head, so the hair fell across his forehead and glowered at Evie, who peered at her mobile screen to frame the shot. He dialed up his smolder and watched her look over the rim of her phone at him and bite her lip, losing her concentration in a most satisfactory manner. At last, she snapped a picture and nodded to him.
“Thanks. That’s perfect,” she said, “it’ll be a great help to me. I mean it. Thank you,” she said.
“Good night, then,” he said.
He lifted a hand to wave to her as he walked in the direction of his hotel. She was staring at him, he knew it. So he didn’t look back at her. This girl was nothing but trouble.
Leopold lay in his hotel room and flicked through the pictures on his phone. The lads he’d known at Harrow gathered on the cricket pitch at Angus’ estate. He’d gone to Harrow because he refused to go to Eton as Jamie and Edward had. Leo had objected to following in his brothers’ footsteps—either Jamie’s rascal record or Edward’s overachieving one. Now, Angus, the last of his mates to fall, was giving up bachelorhood in a few weeks. Here was the last photo he’d snap before Angus succumbed to married life—the slosh of clanking pints in tribute to the groom. It had even sounded final, that hollow tapping of glasses—at the moment it happened, the sadness of it had struck Leo through the haze of six drinks, or perhaps because of them. He was the last man standing, the lone member of his clutch of friends who’d dodged the noose.
At one time, he’d chased that particular noose, had gone so far as to carry the ring in his pocket. He’d never told her, of course. Only a fool would admit to such a thing. To have carried an engagement ring around for days, waiting for the crucial moment, only to find one’s beloved strung out on the bathroom floor again. In the end, he’d put the ring in a drawer and was ashamed that he’d ever considered asking her. He shook his head and switched off his phone, ignoring the eleven messages he’d failed to read.
In the morning, Leo found that he was looking forward to going to the thermal waters with Evie Bartlett. She kept him off balance, which wasn’t boring. Boredom was worse than anything, according to Leo, and it was refreshing to know he wouldn’t find hiding out here dull. Technically he was off-duty for the week, which meant that, technically, his family was aware of his holiday and wished to fill that pesky spare time with some of the ubiquitous royal duties he liked to avoid. It wasn’t that he didn’t take his responsibilities seriously—it was only that he found posing for photographs at the opening of exhibits and gardens, and sidewalks and yogurt stands to be a terrible waste of time. With the vigor of (still sort of) youth and a restless temperament, Leo had bigger things to do than smile and snip ceremonial ribbons. He’d dropped in at Bath to avoid some of that schedule.
He drank a cup of coffee hastily on his way out the door, then doubled back to brush his teeth again. If the tea girl smelled the coffee on him, he thought, she might just slam the door in his face. So he was minty fresh when he arrived at Thimble. Evie met him at the shop door with a mug of frothy tea that smelled amazing.
“It’s chai. I make killer chai. It hasn’t caught on here yet,” she said by way of greeting, “have a scone.”
Leo sipped the rich, spicy brew, burning his tongue as he drank it too fast, “Perfection on a drizzly morning. Cinnamon?”
“And cardamom and cloves and some other stuff. Secret recipe,” she said, “the scone is one I’m excited about. It’s flavored with tea and orange essence. Taste it,” she urged.
Leo broke off a bit, noticed the crumb was lighter, moister than most scones he’d eaten—less like concrete. He popped it in his mouth and immediately reached for more. It tasted fresh and citrusy but with a subtle spice. It made him think of his time in China, of the orange blossom jasmine tea he’d had there, and he told her as much.
“That’s exactly what I wanted it to be. You’re good luck, then. It’s exotic and light and a little intriguing.”
“Have you any cream?”
“Yes,” Evie said as she got him the pot of clotted cream and another dish as well, “I also made lemon curd yesterday.”
He piled on clotted cream, polished off the scone and reached for another, experimenting with the lemon curd as well and nodding his approval.
“You like it?”
“I think it’d be great with coffee. Only if you had bespoke beans, though,” he said.
Evie threw her cloth napkin at him with a snort, “Coffee is not a word that’s welcome here in Evie’s world,” she said.
“Why not? Have you considered making coffee-flavored pastries, too? A chocolate coffee biscuit?”
“No. It would only remind my tea drinkers that all the cool kids drink coffee, and they’d wander out to buy a huge latte instead.”
“You’re a snob. And I’m a royal, so I’m fairly well acquainted with snobbery. Let’s away to the Roman Baths and then a soak in the spa. And I have a surprise for you, truly not to be missed.”
“Am I to be arrested by a costumed Roman soldier for accosting you yesterday? Or for rejecting your bollocks coffee cookies?”
“Two years and all you’ve acquired is ‘bollocks’? We must work on your education. You need to soak up the local culture,” he said.
“Right, coffee drinker. Let’s go,” she said, grabbing her coat.
He took her first to the Roman baths where actors in period dress greeted them, and he got her an audio guide. Through the arches, they swept past sleek marble columns and then on to the Temple of Sulis Mine
rva. “Ooh, if I write out a curse on the bespoke coffee people and throw it in the water with Minerva’s spirit, do you think—?”
“That security will toss you out on your arse? Yes, I do think it. No maledictions and no littering in the sacred pools. Americans!” he said.
They made their way down all the stairs through the desiccated stone chambers, lit with blazing torches, where ancient Romans had bathed and relaxed. The eerie green water of the circular bath seemed to gleam in the flickering light, and he noticed that Evie didn’t linger there.
He did tap her shoulder in the Grand Bath to remind her not to touch or drink the vast steaming pool that bent eerie flashes of torchlight and cast them along the walls beneath the open roof of what was once a high barrel ceiling.
“Potable spa water is in the restaurant. This stuff is nasty. Unsafe.”
“There went my plans to leap in and have a swim in my clothes thanks to that incredible stink. Looks delicious,” she said, switching off her audio guide.
They wandered around, from room to room, and instead of checking his phone for the time constantly, he found himself watching Evie. The splay of torchlight cast shadows across her face, the curve of her cheek and the line of her jaw, her gray eyes avid for every detail. She ran her fingers along the pitted stone and shut her eyes as if to listen. There was something unspeakably sensuous in the way she did that—in the way she seemed alert to the sensory experience all around her, as if every scent, every texture registered with her.
She wasn’t in the style of the girls he normally chatted up. She didn’t have a gleaming mane of pin-straight golden hair and glossed lips and she didn’t show any interest in Pilates. If Leo had a pound for every time he’d had to listen to some sylphlike Sloane go on about Pilates—though come to think of it, he had at least that many pounds sterling to his name. Anyhow, Evie was practical and smart and showed no hesitation at taking him down a peg or two. She wasn’t shiny and groomed as a show dog, and she’d admired the muffler his sister-in-law knitted instead of his smartwatch or his overcoat that likely cost more than her auto. She seemed mildly interested in the fact that he was famous as it related to her business, but otherwise she couldn’t be arsed to worry about his noble lineage and entitlement. In short, he liked her, and that could prove troublesome.
At the thermal spa, they were given robes and slippers and met up in the rooftop pool with its sleek expanse of naturally warm mineral waters. The day was hazy and gray, but the waters were lighted from beneath, a lustrous turquoise. She slipped beneath the surface so quickly that he barely glimpsed a navy blue swimsuit. He wasn’t sure why he felt a pang of annoyance at not having got a better look. He joined her, ducking under to slick back his hair.
“Oh, this feels amazing!” Evie said, “Those Romans knew what they were doing. I bet they wrote fairy tales about this place. Enchanted princesses and gods and goddesses would be stupid not to hang out here.”
“Now you see why everyone thought the water was sacred?”
“I figured it was just that smell. It kind of stinks like it came from the bowels of hell.”
“Which would explain why it’s so nice and warm, yes?” he teased.
“I’ll take it!” she said.
Evie swam across the pool at a leisurely crawl, pausing to gape at the view of the historic towers and the pale sky beyond. She was the most unexpected thing—so practical one moment, so fanciful the next. She seemed content to loll about, the steam making her hair escape from its messy bun and curl around the back of her neck.
He had the oddest thought that she would taste of strawberries, of summer and pink and open sky. He wanted to put his mouth to the back of her neck, just where her hairline met her pale skin, and feel her startle and shiver in his arms. Deliberately, he turned away from her and swam to the edge, levering himself up out of the water.
“Something wrong?” she asked absently.
“Just a bit warm,” he said, “we’ve an appointment anyhow. Time to get your kit back on, Evie.” She sighed and climbed out of the mineral pool, wrapped herself in the robe and stepped into her slippers.
“Meet me downstairs,” he said.
Evie looked warm and pink and happy, cozy in her sweater and denim. She had braided her hair and still damp curls escaped here and there. Leo held out his arm, and she wrinkled her nose at him. “You’ll want to have my arm,” he said mischievously, and she rested her hand on his elbow.
He led her to the lavish Pump Room restaurant for their reservation. He’d had the idea in the bar last night. What American girl—much less an American girl with an old-fashioned tearoom—wouldn’t love the sumptuous champagne tea at the Pump Room? Mother and Inga always took Lizzy and Astrid when they were small, and the girls were mad about it, going on for weeks about the dainty pastries and the flowers and things.
He turned to watch her face. Evie’s lips parted, and she gasped, “Are you kidding me?”
“Not at all, in fact. We’re for champagne afternoon tea.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You couldn’t warn me?” she hissed as quietly as possible.
Alarmed, he looked at her narrowed eyes, at her chin thrust out and wondered how in hell he’d made her angry, “What?”
“This is possibly the fanciest place in the entire universe—this is like my mother ship!—if I’d known, I’d have dressed up. I’m wearing jeans and I’ve been swimming!” She said plaintively as he waved the hostess away.
“Are you—unhappy about this?”
“No, it’s the most thoughtful, fabulous thing anyone’s ever done for me. You’re just clueless about how this whole experience goes. I’m supposed to wear a dress and gloves and pretty shoes and…live in a Georgian novel for an hour or so, I think. Never mind. I’ll just enjoy it. I’ll take a picture with my phone so I can remember how perfect it looks. I just had a panic—of how I’m not perfect enough to be here.”
“Are you joking now? This place was made for you. It’s all about tea and history and everything gracious and warm and lovely,” he said.
Evie kissed his cheek again, quite unexpectedly, “Thank you,” she said, her voice low and husky.
“You’re welcome, although I was concerned you’d have a swing at me a moment ago. We’ve a reservation to keep.”
She took his arm again, and they were seated at a round table with a white tablecloth. She pointed out the plaster moldings, the chandelier. She snapped dozens of pictures, a true tourist. His phone lit, and he checked it. He had followed her Twitter the night before and now here was a surreal series of images from the Pump Room she’d just posted with the hashtag #TeaGirlsDream. She was looking around like a kid at Christmas, and he couldn’t help but grin.
Three or four diners approached the table to meet Leo, to shake his hand or snap a photo. He smiled affably, said he was happy to meet them and invariably made them laugh. Each time he tried to glance at his menu, another curiosity seeker would recognize him, and he would listen as they introduced themselves. Eventually, the management suggested that they move to a less conspicuous table. They were reseated in a corner, and a maître d’ stood sentinel nearby to shoo away any star-struck patrons.
“Is it always this way? Like you can’t go anywhere without being recognized and hounded?” she asked.
“Sometimes it’s worse. Once I was forced into a speed date in a tea room and then the proprietor capitalized on my misfortune by charging customers to sit on the cushion where I had been!” he said.
Evie was too dazzled by her surroundings to give his remark the eye roll it deserved. The uniformed waiter brought out a tiered tray of dainties and read off the choice of loose-leaf teas. Leo ordered Earl Grey, but his companion listened avidly to every item on that list before selecting a Chinese oolong with a complicated name.
“I’ve read about Tai Guan Yin oolong before, of course, but I’ve never had it. Here, let me read you about it—the pale liquor yields a floral—“
“So it’s like wine?”
“I guess so. I mean, the kinds and origins of the leaves make different types of tea, and that’s like the varieties of grapes, I suppose. Let me guess; your family has a vineyard?”
“Probably several. We don’t have any tea plantations in Sri Lanka, though, so I have no hope of impressing you with our vast holdings.”
“I’m impressed you knew black tea comes from Sri Lanka primarily.”
“We take our tea seriously,” he said.
The waiter poured and they each selected sandwiches. “Egg mayonnaise. My favorite,” he said.
“Hey, don’t snark on my tea. This is my version of heaven on earth. No sarcasm. Only sincere appreciation or silence.”
“I like egg mayonnaise. What’s the problem?”
“Oh, sorry. I just assumed you were being a smart ass. Most guys I know would think that eating a tea sandwich made their balls retract.”
“I can’t believe you said balls in the Pump Room.”
“The Romans used to hang out here. They were way into their manly bits,” she said.
“But that was before there were tablecloths here. I was given to understand that talking about your bollocks at dinner got you a thrashing,” he said.
“I guess if you’re at dinner with, like, ambassadors and presidents it’s probably best not to talk about your crotch in general.”
“Good rule of etiquette, that. Clearly not one you abide, at the fanciest place on earth, as you termed it.”
“I was complimenting how secure you are in your masculinity. You can eat a crustless finger sandwich without whining about how you are too manly to lift it without crushing it,” she said, “I don’t talk very well around you. I wonder why?”
“Try the salmon,” he said.
She sampled one and made a squeaky noise of ecstasy, “Oh my God; this is why I can’t go nice places. Too yummy—I can’t contain myself. Try it!” she said, holding it out to him.
The Royal Rake (Royal Romances Book 3) Page 4
