The Royal Rake (Royal Romances Book 3)

by Molly Jameson

  “Will you have a desk job, then?” she said.

  “No. I’m not sure what I’ll do actually. Why, do you need half time help to work the cash register at Thimble?” he said.

  “I wouldn’t mind you lending a hand at the tea shop. You’re good advertising; that’s for sure. I wasn’t offering you a job, though. I was just curious about what your plans are.”

  “I have no idea what my plans are. I’d better make some swiftly, though, or my father will make plans for me, and I’ll find myself scheduled at official events until I’m forty,” he said.

  “You know, I’m going to have to say it. I did warn you, and I even told you, just before you kissed me so you may not have heard properly, but I am, in fact, in love with you. Don’t look so scared.”

  “I did hear you, Evie. I’m not a complete plonker, only half the time. That’s why I kissed you,” he said.

  “I figured it was to shut me up so I’d stop talking about feelings,” she mused.

  “I’m not one for speaking about feelings, I’ll grant you, but I wasn’t for making you belt up either. I don’t want you to be gutted over this. You don’t know half of it. The press attention and the scrutiny and the behaving yourself at public events with a smile pasted on your face…”

  “What?”

  “You don’t know what you’re in for, love. I’m a public figure. The hassle of going out with me is a strain; I’ve been told.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. It was too wonderful—Leo worrying about how she’d handle the media because they were together. The very idea of being with him in real life, of seeing him every day was enough to make her want to laugh and explode with sunshine and rainbows and daffodils.

  “Then you’re lucky I don’t want to date you. I just want to shag you senseless and force you to move to Bath where my shop is,” she told him.

  “Ah, tricky bit, that. I can’t. You see, my family is in London, and I’ve some official charities to patronize and events to attend, and it’s not possible—“

  “It’s not possible that your brother Edward, who is further up the line of succession than you, managed to marry an American and spends half the year in Kentucky, which is quite outside the suburbs of London? Also, the queen’s favorite bath products are at the Thermae Spa, and you could get them for her whenever she wanted them because you’d be so conveniently located in the center of the scone baking universe,” she said.

  He kissed her comprehensively then, and she was vaguely aware that her shoulders were pressed to the bed, and he was above her again, “How did you do that with only one functional arm?” she marveled.

  “Ah, love, I could make you beg for mercy with one arm tied behind my back,” he said, and she felt her body clench, momentarily struck by the mere thought.

  “But could you move to Bath? The begging for mercy is entirely still on the table, by the way, I’m just setting that aside for a moment so you can tell me straight out if we can make this work,” she said, her voice tight with longing.

  “I suppose since you know I’m not the most in-demand member of the family, and, in fact, I’m often dispatched to attend events in South Asia where a royal appearance is required—that I’m able to live outside London and the official residence. This means no skiving off tonight. You have to meet my parents.”

  Leo looked adorably nervous, and she grinned, “I know they’re intimidating, but if that’s all I have to do to be with you, then I’ll meet them now wrapped in a sheet if I need to.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. They have absolutely no sense of humor. It’s a wonder any of us survived to adulthood,” he said.

  “They’ll like me. I’m plucky and down to earth. I have my own business, so I’m not after your money or fame.”

  “You used my picture to sell baked goods,” he said.

  “Oh, they’re very good scones, and you did volunteer the photo yourself. I hardly think they can hold that against me.”

  “Phillip, Lizzy’s husband, his family used to make barrels. Now my father’s on about what commoners they are. Partly to tweak Phillip’s horrible snob of a mother but really—that’s my dad’s idea of humor. Ho-ho, our son-in-law’s grandparents made barrels, how amusing,” he said.

  “When you say ho-ho it makes you sound like Santa. It’s rather uncomfortable for me since I’m now apparently attracted to Santa Claus,” she said.

  “So, tell Father Christmas if you’ve been naughty,” he said, raising an eyebrow and she laughed.

  “No, no it’s too awful! Stop!” she said.

  “If you think that’s awful wait until my father starts calling America the Colonies,” he said.

  “If we’re to be colonial, I’ll have to buy a bonnet to go with my Christmas boots,” she said.

  “I don’t think a bonnet is acceptable at a family dinner. But we’d best be getting ready. We were a bit…distracted.”

  “How late is it? Lord, I have to prepare myself!” she said.

  “Prepare yourself how? Fasting and prayer? They’re just my parents, a bit more self-important than other parents, I reckon, but it’s not the end of the world. If they hate you—which they won’t don’t look so worried—it won’t stop me liking you,” he promised, kissing her forehead.

  ***

  Leo swore she had nothing to worry about as she helped him button his shirt. He asked her help tying his tie only to find that she had no idea how to do so. He opted for an open collar. She looked so beautiful in the dress she’d chosen, but so pale and nervous. She had every right to be. Neither of his parents was known for their friendliness nor forgiving nature. More than once his dad had threatened to disown Jamie and Lizzy, and the less said about Gigi, the better. He sometimes wondered if his brother Alistair wasn’t the only one of the lot who knew what he was about, moving to another continent at his first opportunity. Because of that wise decision, clever Alistair wouldn’t be facing the parental firing squad today with a lovely, talented girl who happened to talk about truck nuts in the Pump Room.

  He was afraid of what she’d say, he admitted it to himself. She was vivacious and fun and clever, but she had no social graces to speak of. And, Lord help them, they were going to dinner at the palace. It couldn’t be a quick audience, a meet, and greet between official appointments. No, his parents had to extend the royal olive branch and allow their reckless, injured son bring his new American girlfriend for a meal. A meal at which this adorable girl had no hope of acquitting herself well.

  “If you panic, don’t talk about balls. Talk about the weather,” he said, “ or how much you love England. My dad especially loves to talk about how great England is. You can’t go wrong with that,” he said.

  She nodded without a word, and they rode to the palace. He’d never noticed before, not until he brought Evie here, that the Buck was institutional looking, that it lacked any welcome in its architecture. He wondered if perhaps it had been designed that way on purpose. If ever a building were designed to intimidate, he thought it must be the Buck. For sheer hugeness and grandeur, it couldn’t be outdone this side of Versailles—which was its own sort of excess. The Buck came with the formidable, members-only vibe of a place intended for those who could track their ancestry seven generations back in nobility. Portraits of his ancestors lined the hall, and she clung to his hand like the fat old kings could leap from the frames and seize her.

  In the dining room—vast with its red walls and carpet, its gold and crystal chandeliers—his parents rose to meet them. His father was altered from his medical treatments, his big frame reduced. His mother was flawless as usual as if carved from marble and approximately as affectionate. He gave a stiff bow and watched as Evie managed a credible curtsey.

  “Miss Bartlett, welcome. We’re so happy you could join us,” the queen said coolly.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Evie said and impressed Leo with her proper method of address. Looking round the room, he introduced everyone to her. Lizzy
and Phillip were there, Edward and Carrie, Jamie, who was seated beside Astrid and trying to avoid looking at her, and Bea who was sitting on the other side of Inga and listening to the woman go on about skiing. Everyone smiled kindly at Evie, especially Carrie who must know exactly what the girl was going through.

  “Sit by me. We’ll be strangers in a strange land together. We can talk about what real birthday dinners are like back home where we get a bucket of chicken and an ice cream cake,” Carrie said.

  “Evie made me some enormous biscuit for my birthday with blue frosting on,” Leo said.

  “It was a cookie cake.”

  “Wait. You know how to make a cookie cake? Without it being raw in the middle? You have to teach me. I make killer chocolate chip cookies, but if you could show me how to make a cookie cake, I could toss some walnuts in it and make my dad’s entire life,” Carrie said.

  “If you’ll give me your email, I’ll send you the recipe.”

  “That would be great. Here, give me your mobile number and I’ll message you the address,” Carrie said, and the two women whipped out their mobiles at the table and began saving one another’s contact information.

  Leo watched as his mother looked truly appalled that the Americans were playing on their phones. He shot a look of distress toward Lizzy, who could always be counted upon to create a diversion, but, no, she had her phone out, and they were all trading mobile numbers and email addresses. It was like a mobile phone orgy, right there at the palace dining table. Phillip looked at him and shrugged good-naturedly. Leo took a drink of his wine and grimaced, setting it aside at the belated recollection that he couldn’t drink while taking narcotic pain medicine.

  “So, tell us, Evelyn, you sell rolls, I believe,” King Victor said.

  “Yes, sir, scones and other tea pastries.”

  “Did you train in America or Europe?”

  “Train?”

  “Your culinary coursework. In pastry making?”

  “I didn’t train, exactly. My great aunt Bridget ran the tea room, and when she passed away, she left it to me,” Evie said. A blood orange and fennel salad were served, and Leo tried to get her attention, to show her how to cut a sliver of fennel and eat it with the oranges, so she didn’t wind up with a mouthful of bitter licorice flavor. After several attempts, he finally touched her arm, whispering to her.

  “Be certain you eat some orange with each bite of fennel, else it’s disgusting,” he said. He was rewarded with a small, grateful smile that made him want to kiss her.

  “Surely you had some practical experience then,” the King said. Leo winced. He could tell that his father was making an effort to encourage her, but it would only seem to belittle her in the end.

  “Only during the summers I stayed with Aunt Bridget. Otherwise, I worked in retail once I graduated high school,” she said, spearing a slice of fennel with her fork and biting it emphatically. He watched the revulsion lit across her expression before she recovered her appearance of pleasant neutrality and swallowed the fennel.

  “Well, well, humble backgrounds just like our Phillip. Phillip here, Lizzy’s husband, comes from a distinguished line of barrel makers,” King Victor said with a pompous laugh. Leo shook his head slightly and noticed that Evie was grinning tightly, rocking back and forth a little, trying to suppress her laughter. He was glad he’d warned her about his father’s favorite family joke, but he had no idea she’d find it so hilarious. She reached for his hand under the table and squeezed it. He squeezed back.

  “Yeah, Phillip’s a commoner. His family made barrels. Isn’t that just the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?” Lizzy said, “And we have tattoos. And I work with horses. In fact, I’m not even qualified to work with the horses yet. I’m still training to be a physio. We’re a total disgrace,” she said merrily.

  “I hear from Leo that physios are cruel and not nearly peppy enough. I think he’d prefer something less medical and more like the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders,” Evie said.

  “That’s our Leo. They’re a bit rough on him, and he thinks to contact Amnesty International,” Lizzy said, “come to think of it, though, I could practice on you.”

  “Oh no, I think not,” Leo said, “my shoulder will mend fine under the care of licensed physiotherapists, thank you very much.”

  “Oh, come on! I could use the clinical practice. Why didn’t I think of this? I mean, I have this great opportunity to help improve your recovery. A major joint replacement right in my own family!”

  “You needn’t sound so thrilled about it!” Leo said.

  “And you could try hippotherapy, too. It would help you. Adaptive riding has all sorts of benefits. I can show you my research. And Miranda, the hippotherapist I hired for Pembroke, is ace. You have to stay with us for a while and try it out!”

  “I blew out my shoulder, Lizzy. Riding a horse isn’t going to mend it. I have to do a set of exercises and follow doctor’s orders. It’s lovely that you’re so bizarrely excited by my injury, and you want to help, but I think I’ll stay in Notting Hill and off of horseback for the time being,” he said.

  “I have been meaning to ask you, Lizzy, how is your hippotherapy center coming along?” Astrid said.

  “We should be ready to open in a few weeks, with Miranda in charge of the adaptive riding program until I’m certified. There is already a day school for teenagers with cognitive delays that wants to bring a group of students every week—it’s so good for muscle tone and confidence. I can’t wait to begin. Thank you for asking, Astrid. How is your arts initiative working out in Sweden? I know you were quite keen to see the visual arts program expanded.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely of you to remember that. It’s going quite well, thank you. The students in the special program are preparing for their first exhibit in a few months. I look forward to it greatly.”

  “Wonderful. I hope you’ll send photos!” Lizzy said.

  “Astrid, is it a co-educational program or girls only?” Bea said.

  “It is co-educational. I saw no reason to segregate the students for the pilot program.”

  “I see. Well, research shows that adolescent girls perform much better academically in single-gender groupings. I suspect the results in creative expression would be similar. If they didn’t have to consider what boys would think of their art, they might be free to share their ideas more.” Bea said.

  “I’ll have to look into that research and determine if it would benefit our girls to have their own program. Thank you, Beatrice,” Astrid said graciously.

  “That’s our Beatrice,” Jamie said, “she read psychology at uni, and she tries to keep us all informed about the latest brain research.”

  “I thought she read women’s studies,” Evie said.

  “I did,” Bea said. Jamie looked from one to the other of them, puzzled.

  “Sorry, old girl. Could’ve sworn it was psychology.”

  “I had a good deal of coursework in sociology,” Bea said.

  “Ah,” Jamie said, “so, Evie, I did enjoy your scones very much.”

  “I’m so glad,” she said.

  “The tweets are hilarious,” Carrie said, “I hashtagged one myself, a picture of Edward eating a Krispy Kreme!”

  “That is fantastic,” Evie said.

  “They’re quite splendid. I’ve never understood the American fascination with deep-frying all manner of food until I was compelled to try a doughnut. I must say, they are delicious,” Edward said.

  “Now don’t go around endorsing doughnuts, Edward, or you’ll be in competition with your brother,” Evie said.

  “Which one? I’ve seen both Leo and Jamie eating your scones, in tweets and retweets,” Edward said.

  “I think someone’s jealous,” Leo said, “Edward, are you hinting that you want to be featured in a Royal-tea tweet? All you have to do is pose with a scone. Even you could manage to smile for the camera if you had one of Evie’s scones to eat.”

 
“I make my own lemon curd,” she said.

  “If there’s lemon curd involved you can totally take my picture eating a scone,” Carrie offered.

  “We should all do one big picture eating Evie’s scones!” Jamie said, “give her a bit of help in the business world.”

  “You will do no such thing!” King Victor said, “I’ve only just got Lizzy to stop making a spectacle of herself in photos, thanks in part to Phillip here, and I’m not about to have my offspring posing for adverts like a lot of common—“

  “Tea drinkers?” Jamie said, “Because we do drink tea and eat scones. So do you. I’ve seen you.”

  “What would our loyal subjects think, though?” Bea said, “they might suspect that we consume bread products and be thoroughly disillusioned with the entire British class system.”

  “I believe what Victor is trying to say is that, while it is certainly generous of you to wish to help Evie, it is a bit undignified,” Astrid said.

  “I hate to be the one to discomfit you with this news, Astrid, but I’ve never been terribly dignified, with or without scones,” Jamie said.

  “I have to agree with him on that point,” Edward said, “his antics in Kentucky were well below even the modern standard of basic etiquette.”

  “Are you still sore that I kissed your bride? Or that it was in all the papers?” Jamie said.

  “If Edward is too gracious to censure you for that bit of misbehavior, I’m not. You disgraced your family, dragged the entire lot of your brothers and sisters through the muck for the sake of getting a bit more press attention,” Queen Eugenie said.

  “In his defense, he was trying to get Edward’s attention, not the media’s,” Carrie said, “although I have the most to be offended about considering Jamie’s tactics.”

  “The only woman ever to complain about being kissed by a handsome prince, the heir to the throne,” Jamie said.