The Royal Rake (Royal Romances Book 3)

by Molly Jameson

  “He married my sister Lizzy,” Leo said, “he was originally engaged to Carrie’s sister Amanda but there was some difficulty about the wedding, and it never went off as such.”

  “Thanks for the explanation but I know exactly who Princess Carrie is. I read magazines,” she said, “Although I suppose it’s Princess Edward.”

  “Ah, he told you that bit, did he? It does dull the luster of marrying a prince. You get saddled with all the press attention and don’t even get the fairy tale title. Not that Carrie seems to give two pence for the title.”

  “She’s extraordinary that way,” Leo said, “Carrie’s the one who knitted the blue muffler—“

  “Yes. And I was instrumental in reuniting her with our upstanding brother Edward,” Jamie said, “without me, they wouldn’t be together.”

  “He’s the egotistical one. I reckon he makes me look positively modest, doesn’t he?” Leo said.

  “Not really. You’re both pretty…confident. I can’t imagine why. Handsome, clever, part of the ruling family of a major world power.”

  “He won’t have any real political influence. The monarchs are figureheads primarily. We have parliament for the actual lawmaking,” Leo put in.

  “Nonsense. The monarchy is both a powerful philanthropic force on the international scene and a meaningful touchstone for the British people in continuity with the past,” Jamie said.

  “Did you, like, memorize that from the website?” Evie said.

  “No. I’m affronted that you’d think so. I know I have a reputation, but never think that means I don’t love my country. I like a bit of fun, who doesn’t? But no one would be more ready to take up arms to defend England; no one would be more willing to argue the merits of a constitutional monarchy over a republic—“

  “Hold on. He’ll begin singing God Save the King any moment now,” Leo said. Unfortunately, Evie didn’t smile at him conspiratorially over his brother’s passionate defense of the monarchy. Instead, she seemed riveted, impressed, hanging on Jamie’s every bloody word.

  “Even Edward says I’ll be a splendid king and, as you know, Leo, Edward gives no quarter.”

  “You must value his respect greatly then,” Evie said, “I think the kettle’s boiled. Care for a scone?” Jamie selected, predictably, the biggest Royal-tea scone and bit into it with an appreciative sound.

  “I say, this is delicious. When I am king, which I hope will not be for a long time yet, I hereby declare thee official royal scone baker,” he said with a glint of mischief.

  “Does that position come with a salary or must I continue to slave away in the obscurity of Bath?”

  “Bath is hardly obscure. It’s one of our best-known spa towns,” Jamie said, “Founded in the first century AD by the Romans for its thermal spa, a center of the wool industry in the Middle Ages…”

  “Full marks on the history exam, James,” Leo said, “Evie’s lived there two years. I’m sure she knows all she cares to of the city’s origins.”

  “Not at all, Leo. I think it’s wonderful that Jamie takes the time to know so much about the country he stands to rule one day,” she said.

  “Yes. Wonderful,” Leo said flatly, taking a drink of his tea. She’d put a generous dollop of cream in it, just the way he liked it. He was astonished she could remember how he took his tea, blinded by Jamie’s infernal light as she was. He stood and took down the tin of cinnamon sticks, dropping one into her tea with a smile. He felt good that he remembered to pick some up, that he knew just what she liked.

  “So, what did you get Mother for her birthday,” Leo said.

  “It’s a surprise,” Jamie said smoothly.

  “I got her a new umbrella. You know how she always forgets hers,” Leo said.

  “I suppose she’ll have to open a, what was it you said, Leo? A yogurt stand or a sidewalk on her birthday like you do,” Evie said.

  “Hardly. There’s to be an intimate dinner at the Buck. Mother, being the Queen Consort, is exempt from quite a few of the royal duties that fall to the children. She claims that having borne seven healthy heirs, she shouldn’t have to stand around cutting ribbons,” Leo said.

  “I think she has a point there,” Evie said, “but I can’t imagine how many people would be at an intimate royal dinner.”

  “Not as many as you’d think. All the offspring who are in the country, which means everyone but Alastair and possibly Gigi. And, of course, Mother’s dearest friend Inga, the Queen Consort of Sweden. Mother of the dutiful Princess Astrid. Because what Mother wants is not the umbrella my younger brother so thoughtfully purchased, but a betrothal between her eldest and Inga’s,” Jamie said.

  “Would this the Astrid the future Princess James of England?” Evie said.

  “Not if I have anything to say on it,” Jamie said, “but if you happen to be a royal watcher, as most of the UK and, I fear, all of America tends to be, I’d be delighted if you’d join us tomorrow evening.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t. But thank you just the same,” Evie said quickly.

  “No, do come. It’ll be much more amusing with you there.”

  “Not afraid I’ll start talking about testicles are you?” Evie said.

  “I rather think you exhausted that topic at the Pump Room tea. Perhaps you can discuss bowel troubles or erectile dysfunction, though,” Leo said.

  “If we’re talking erectile dysfunction at the dinner table, I have a reason to attend now! I have to deflect the conversation before Father has apoplexy. I’m not looking to ascend the throne before the weekend,” Jamie said.

  “If you attend, you’ll get to see Jamie here trying to hide behind the potted palms to avoid Astrid. It’s most diverting; I promise you.”

  “That does sound delightful, but I think I’ll pass. I’m just not a dinner at the palace sort of girl. Thank you, though,” she said. Leo stood and poured her more tea, spooning honey into it for her. Evie smiled at him when he gave her the cup and for that moment, he could’ve sworn she never knew Jamie was in the room at all.

  “I’d better be getting back to my shop. I have…scones to bake,” she said, setting down her cup decisively.

  “I do wish you’d stay,” Leo said, “Don’t let my brother drive you away. It’ll make him self-conscious. You know how he repulses women. It’s the real reason they have to keep dragging Astrid here from Sweden. Poor thing would rather become a nun than sit across table from that face.” Jamie mugged amiably, trying to look pitiful.

  “You boys need some time to talk, I can see. I only came to the city to check on poor invalid Leopold, and he seems to be getting on fine. Apart from the fact, he’s only wearing one sock. Perhaps you can help with that, Jamie. I was no good for putting socks on other people,” she said.

  “You’re having this poor girl put your socks on you? No wonder she’s eager to leave you, brother mine.”

  “It isn’t that. I didn’t mind trying to dress him, although I did a fairly crappy job of it. I just have my life to get back to. It was nice to see you again, Leo,” she said. He fancied she said it a little sadly.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Leo said. He offered her his arm for old time’s sake, and she shook her head with an eye roll, remembering how he’d offered his arm walking from the Saracen’s Head to her shop the day they met. He bent and kissed her cheek. “Better days to you, Evelyn Bartlett. I wish I could have been a part of them.”

  “You never could. You’re a prince, a real one. That doesn’t go along with real life exactly.”

  “It’s my version of real life. Rather complicated at that. I shouldn’t have got you mixed up in it.” he said, leaning on the doorway with his good arm, looking down at her and thinking how lovely she was, how resourceful and how warm and loving.

  “Don’t think I’m going home to wander my shop, glaring at the scones like a deranged Miss Havisham. I came to see you because I wanted to and I’m leaving of my free will. Don’t worry about me.”

&
nbsp; “You stalked me. Found my personal number. I think you were veering into Havisham territory,” he said, feeling a swell of something like fondness for her. Of course, he liked her. She was a likable creature, was Evie Bartlett.

  “I’m a likable creature?” she said.

  “What?”

  “You just said I was a likable creature. Like I was a stray dog who didn’t get on your nerves or something,” she said.

  “There’s no possibility that I said that aloud.”

  “You did. You said it. It wasn’t very flattering. Kind of like damning with faint praise.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be. I reckon the Vicodin makes me a bit loopy. Forgive me.”

  “One day you’ll stop asking forgiveness all the time. You haven’t done anything wrong, Leo. If I have to settle for being likable, I guess there are worse things than being liked by you.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, “I hope your shoulder gets better. And you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

  Leo watched her get in the car he’d ordered for her. He watched it until the taillights disappeared around a corner and then he turned back to look at Jamie. Jamie, who was far too nosy to have waited in the kitchen like a gentleman.

  “She makes a fine cup of tea and a remarkably good scone. I think she could be exactly what you need, Leo, old man.”

  “I’m only twenty-nine. You’re the old man. I thought she would have been perfect for Edward. Such a wholesome little thing.”

  “Edward is married. As is Lizzy, come to the point. The lot of us are lining up for the noose it seems, and you’re next.”

  “I beg to differ with you. You’re about to be Prince Astrid of Sweden,” Leo said.

  “I rather think their titular system is different from ours. Furste James, perhaps.”

  “Showing off your command of her language…save that for dinner. You’re sure to dazzle her from your spot behind the potted plants.”

  “I did that once; one time only did I conceal my royal form behind a convenient botanical specimen to buy some time after Astrid delivered a very pointed setdown over a little joke I made.”

  “She looks like a Hollywood bombshell, Jamie. And she’s wickedly clever. I can’t see how you object to her except on principle. Because Mother and Father want you to like her, you refuse to do so. Is that all?”

  “That’s plenty, Leo. There are some palpable advantages to being the younger son. Apart from being free to dangle off helicopters and chase your amusement, you can have any girlfriend you like without worrying that she’s only with you in hope of becoming queen…”

  “Another reason Astrid is ideal. She’ll already be queen. Sweden’s a hereditary monarchy. She has her own power, her own kingdom…”

  “Yes, she’s impeccable. Don’t remind me. As it stands, I reckon you were looking at Evie like a delectable little crumpet you’d like to sample.”

  “I’ve already sampled that particular crumpet,” Leo said, draining the tea from his cup and prowling the kitchen for something stronger.

  “Then why the hell were you still looking at her so longingly? When I got here, you acted like I’d interrupted something highly important. If you’d already acted on your attraction and got her out of your system, why all the distress at my arrival?”

  “I did have the pleasure, but I’m not sure if it’s possible to get her out of my system. I—she left her boots. I have to go. You can hide here. I need a car,” Leo said, snatching up the carrier bag and wedging his feet back into shoes.

  Chapter Six

  Evie reached for her bag, ready to pass the time in the car by reading not an elegant tome on afternoon tea, but a salacious tell-all about Leo, the heir apparent to his brother Jamie’s notorious reputation in Britain. She found only her handbag and realized she’d left her gifts from Leo back in Notting Hill in her haste to avoid further pressure to accept a courtesy invitation to the royal birthday dinner. She knew that she was a near-stranger and in no way welcome at a private family gathering. She also knew that, with their impressive manners, there was no way that Jamie and Leo wouldn’t join forces to assure her she was, in fact, more welcome than the queen’s own daughters at the festivities.

  She felt out of place like her presence was an imposition on them even at the townhouse. She quailed at the idea of meeting a dozen or so titled members of the hereditary monarchy over a chicken dinner or whatever it was such people served for birthdays. She’d lived in England two years and never taken a tour of the palace. She’d ridden the Eye, visited Trafalgar Square and the Tate Modern. She’d never gone in for the royal buildings, not even the jewels in the Tower. So why on earth would she want to meet these intimidating people and stand there like some backwoods American caught doing the walk of shame? Shagging a prince didn’t entitle her to admission to the palace, or else the place would be packed to the wainscoting with Leo’s and Jamie’s conquests.

  Evie wondered whether she should text Leo and apologize for forgetting her gift, maybe ask him to Fed Ex it to her in Bath. She decided to leave him alone. They’d had a near miss today, and it was for the best. She had no business with a man like that even if he wasn’t born into a ruling family. He had that beautiful, tragic face and took himself so seriously, but he had that pirate’s grin, that glint of mischief that made him irresistible. It was that classic chiseled Brando vibe without the abrasiveness; it was doom with a hint of magic to lure you to your willing destruction. If the sirens had been men, luring maidens to their death on the rocks, he would surely have been one of them. He was a creature of air and water as surely as they were, at home on helicopters or riding the ocean waves. Evie shook her head and scolded herself for growing fanciful.

  She took out her phone and saw she had several messages…from the Prince of Wales. Jamie had taken a series of increasingly gorgeous and goofy selfies posing with her scones. They were reminiscent of the kind of dumb pictures teen girls took of themselves with cupcakes and things---holding one in his hand with a beaming smile, pretending to bite one with his mouth wide open, and then her personal favorite that had her laughing aloud, a shot of Jamie lying down across Leo’s poor dining table with the scones arranged in a semi-circle above his head. She could not wait to caption those and tweet them. They were uproarious and fun with a knowing hint of satire, exactly the image she wanted for Thimble’s social media. And Jamie was giving her exactly what she wanted. She smirked. Of course, he was. Because his brother was the master of giving her just enough rope to hang herself and then disappearing.

  She fell asleep on the drive, succumbing to the comfort of the leather seats and the smooth suspension of a chauffeured Rolls. When she arrived, Evie stirred, checked the time and determined that the tea shop would still be open. She could go over the receipts and get to work on uploading Jamie’s photos to Thimble’s social media. Pulling her hair back into a ponytail, she strode into her tearoom and halted, nearly stumbling over her own feet. There, at a table by the window and mobbed by a group of enthusiastic fans, sat Leopold. She gaped, unsure what to say or even how he’d gotten there ahead of her. She smiled, because she was happy to see him and because she didn’t want him to notice that she was standing around with her mouth hanging open.

  Evie slid into the chair opposite him, “So, we have eight minutes before someone else’s name is drawn out of the basket, right?” she said slyly. He grinned, and she wanted to push that lock of sandy hair off of his brow.

  “I hear if you buy three scones you can sit on the cushion where my arse has been. But you have to speak to the owner. That promotion may have ended now.”

  “I bet I can get that deal, especially since you’ve now graced two of our peasant cushions with your royal backside. What brings you here, Leo?”

  “You left this,” he said, setting the brown carrier bag on the table, “I can’t have you go through the holidays with nothing to look forward to. Boots and a book.”

  “I’m sorry I forgot th
em. I was in a hurry to get out of there. No offense.”

  “Jamie has that affect on women; I’ve told you. They all run for the hills. Can’t get them to stay in the same room with him. It’s been a trial on his poor ego,” Leo said.

  “I can see that. Since he sent me a camera roll full of selfies while I was on the way here.”

  “Please tell me they’re only pictures of his face. There’s no drink in the townhouse because I’m on painkillers. If he were in his cups, you’d be getting photos of his abs. He’s rather too proud of them.”

  “I don’t remember you being too ashamed of yours when we were together,” she said.

  “Mine were earned the old-fashioned way, by hard work in the outdoors, not in a health club with a paid physio trainer shouting encouragement. No one bellowed Bravo, your royal highness, while I was conditioning for my search and rescue job.”

  “I would have been more than happy to cheer you on if I’d been there,” she said, “and I expect you’ll have plenty of physical therapists ready to break out the pompoms during your recovery.”

  “Physiotherapists are merciless. Not at all the pert, bouncing creatures, you seem to think them,” he said.

  “Oh, were they mean to you? I’ll kick them in the nuts.”

  “Why must you always speak of testicles when we meet? It’s a sort of obsession with you, it seems.”

  “I was teasing you because the big badass action figure prince got his feelings hurt by the physical therapist.”

  “My sister Bea would say that was chauvinistic of you. You try to wound me by wielding patriarchal expectations. I am a man and should not, as such, get discouraged when things are hard.”

  “Lord, I did not expect that argument from you,” she said, smiling in surprise, “I take it back.”

  “My younger sister read Women’s Studies at Cambridge.”

  “I don’t know much about her. Jamie and Edward and Lizzy, sure, they’re in the press all the time, and your dazzling self, of course. What’s Bea like?”