The Royal Rake (Royal Romances Book 3)

by Molly Jameson

  “I wasn’t aware I did it. But now you mention it; I probably copied it off him. He has always been everything I wanted to be…someone who did what pleased himself and damned what everyone else thinks.”

  “Is that what you want or what you think is cool?” she asked.

  “You sound like a lecture on the dangers of peer pressure,” he said.

  “And that’s not an answer. Do you really want to go around playing polo and shagging people and not worrying about consequences? Because the guy who walked into my tearoom wanted to put everyone at ease. He went out of his way to make people smile, and he spent his time taking crazy risks to save a lot of dumb fishermen. More like he was trying to prove himself than trying to live the good life,” she said.

  “When you talk about me in the third person it’s very regal,” he said.

  “Quit flirting with me. I’m serious. I don’t—as much as it kills me to say this, I don’t think you actually know what you want, and that includes me. You can’t do search and rescue anymore so that’s changing jobs, moving house, leaving friends behind, and you think I’m your lifeboat. But, honey, I can’t save you. You’ve got to do that yourself,” she said.

  Her voice was husky with emotion, but she didn’t cry. She kissed him softly and told him she’d be going home. That if he wanted to talk to her, he was welcome to call and say hello. Then she walked out and left him in Notting Hill with no job, no purpose, and now no girlfriend either.

  Evelyn Bartlett wasn’t as predictable as he’d thought. In fact, she’d just shocked the hell out of him. She’d cared enough to track him down after his accident, she’d visited him, agreed to run the gauntlet of his parents and then walked out on him because she decided he didn’t know what he wanted in life. It was brave in an irritating way, and he had no desire to examine his feelings on the subject beyond disbelief. He got a bottle out of the cupboard over the refrigerator and poured himself a drink. He wasn’t in any mood for a dark night of the soul, but if he had to have one he might as well begin with a fine Irish whiskey.

  The American would be back, he told himself. Evie Bartlett was loyal. Even if she thought she was letting him go to find his own happiness or whatever the American talk show presenters were always on about, she’d come round in the end. She’d realize he cared for her much more than he could say. She’d figure out that if he was willing to move all the way out to Bath to be with her, then he must be serious about making it work. He had to count on her figuring it out. Because if she didn’t…then, what? Before he could consider that appalling possibility, Leo had a task he’d been putting off and now was the time to wallow in that particular self-pity, he reckoned.

  Leo flipped on the lights in every room of the house and then he did what he’d been dreading. He opened his laptop and opened the photos folder. He searched for all the tagged pictures of Adriana Wellingford and, one by one, he looked at them, trying to remember where they were and why, or when exactly each was taken. It blurred together, the tumultuous time they’d shared, and there hadn’t been a peaceful or happy day between them. It had been her energy, her strong opinions and unfiltered commentary that drew him as much as her pretty face, her aristocratic background so similar to his.

  As he clicked through each photo, moving it to a separate folder marked Ancient History, he saw that she’d never been looking at him in a picture. He was often gazing at her adoringly, but she looked straight at the camera as if trying to be seen. She looked excited or angry or frantic, never relaxed or pleased to be wherever she was. Despite what she’d said in her long emails full of accusations, he’d never made her happy. He knew that deep down and the pictures were proof. They’d broken up repeatedly, but then she would call him, crying about how she couldn’t go on without him and he’d go right back to her to try and save her.

  His parents had remarked that she wasn’t much of a steadying influence on him, but they’d never voiced any other disapproval, ironically. He didn’t look too happy in those photos himself, Leo realized. He wished things could have been different, but he didn’t have much to show for their time together besides regret.

  He went to the office and found some paper and a pen. Leo had a letter to write.

  Dree,

  I’m sorry about what happened to you, about how you went so long with no one understanding you, myself included. I wish I could have helped you or given you some kind of relief. I know that I didn’t, and at the time I was really only interested in my own happiness anyway. We grew up together in a way, both selfish and lost.

  I’ve been chasing redemption the last few years, certain if I saved enough people I’d be worthwhile, I’d get approval or—I don’t even know what I hoped to gain from it. Praise and attention, I reckon. I ripped my arm out of the socket a few weeks ago and had to have surgery. That put an effective end to my career as a superhero. I’m on some pretty strong painkillers—the sort you liked, come to think of it—and that may account for why I’m writing letters to the dead tonight. But I don’t think that’s the only reason.

  I didn’t go to your memorial, didn’t give my condolences to your parents. I hid because I didn’t like being blamed and I went to your grave but you weren’t there. I threw a sixpence in, which you would have said was a bloody waste of good money that could go toward a decent pair of shoes. You were an incredible girl, Dree. I hope you’re free now. I hope it more than anything, and that someday you’ll forgive me, too.

  You said once that you loved me, that I was the great love of your life. Whether that was true or not, I’ll never know, but you meant it at the time. I never loved you back. I liked you a lot, and you drove me mad half the time, but I didn’t really love anyone but myself in those days. I love someone now. I met a girl in a teashop at Bath. You’d hate it—very quaint and adorable. She reminds me of you a little because she’s very direct and blunt in the way she talks, and full of life. But she’s strong and confident, and she doesn’t need me at all, which scares the hell out of me. Because that’s why I was with you, really. You needed me or thought you did. This girl, Evie, she can get on without me just fine. But I’m not sure I could get along without her.

  What I want is to be a better version of me, so I can win her over. She says she loves me but who’s to say she won’t get over that? All my life I’ve wanted to do something important, something to put me on the map. I’ve jumped out of planes and climbed mountains and hung out of helicopters and I didn’t save much of anything, not even you. She told me I had to save myself, but what I reckon is I have to forgive myself instead. Because I’ve never amounted to much, but I think I can do better.

  Better days, that’s what I told her I wished for. Better days for us all.

  If I want better days, I’ll have to make them. I see that now.

  Leo

  He folded the letter twice and went outside in the cold night. He set the letter on the doorstep, struck a match and watched the letter burn, the flakes of paper and smoke leafing up toward the sky. Then he shrugged on half his coat, put on his blue muffler and went for a walk through the neighborhood.

  Chapter Seven

  Evie put in her earbuds and cranked the Beatles while she baked batch after batch of Royal-tea scones. It was hard to be stoic and leave him behind when even the smell of oolong tea and orange reminded her of Leo. And, as sod’s luck would have it, his scone was the most popular, so her business and her apartment smelled that way constantly.

  She flipped songs, added almond extract to the scones instead of orange essence for a change. She scraped the beans from a vanilla pod and stirred the deep umber paste into the mixture. The fragrance was rich and blessedly different. She put that batch in the oven and sifted confectioner’s sugar to make a light orange glaze for the ones ready to put in the case. He hadn’t called her. He hadn’t texted except to tell her good night. She’d let him go; it had been her own choice. Now she had to wait and see if he came back to her. Evie did a number of things very wel
l—baking, multi-tasking, organizing—but waiting and being patient were not in her wheelhouse of skills.

  Lily came in to talk about the giveaway they were running on the website to celebrate their ten thousandth order. Evie showed her the basket she’d made up for the prize. In it was a delicate china teacup painted with violets, a box of loose-leaf earl grey, a jar of local honey and a voucher for half a dozen scones. Lily took photos of it with her phone to put on the site and gave Evie a hug.

  “Come around my place for a drink after you close. I have a bottle of wine with breakup written all over it.”

  “Thanks. I’m closing at six, so expect me by six thirty. Pour yourself a glass before then because I may drink straight out of the bottle,” she said.

  Then she felt a pang remembering Leo drinking out of her tequila bottle. Everything, every stupid thing in the world reminded her of him! Evie took a muffin out of the case and bit the crumble topping right off of it, in front of customers. People stared at her openly and Charlotte from the Tea for Two night asked if she was feeling quite well.

  “What? It’s muffin therapy,” she grumbled and took her muffin back to the kitchen where she wouldn’t be judged.

  Evie had a mouthful of cherry crumble muffin when Leo walked in the back door. She coughed, nearly choking on her muffin and dropped what was left of it. Stooping, she scraped the bits of muffin into her hand to throw them away.

  “No, stop,” he said, his voice impossibly warm and fond, “it’s fine. Five-second rule. Haven’t you heard of it? It’s pure science.”

  Shaking her head, she dropped the muffin remains on the counter and got herself a glass of water so she could swallow the last of her huge bite of muffin. It was awkward, but it at least gave her a moment to think of something to say.

  “What brings you here? Sir?” she said.

  “I thought if you weren’t busy you might take a drive with me,” he said.

  Evie looked at the crowded tearoom through the kitchen door and remembered that she’d boosted Heather to full-time now. “Give me a minute,” she said.

  Evie told Heather to take care of the shop for the rest of the day and to open in the morning and wait for a phone call. Privately, Evie wasn’t sure if she’d come back happy or heartbroken, and she wanted to know the shop would still open and the standing orders would be ready to go out at seven as always. She took the scones out of the oven and set them on a rack to cool.

  “Do I need to change? Are we going to a formal tea or the palace or anything?”

  “No, you look perfect. It’ll just be us two,” he said, “and I haven’t taken any pain medication in over twenty-four hours. I’m safe to drive.”

  In the car, she rode beside him in silence, unsure of what to say. Everything she thought of was either angry recrimination or an apology, and he didn’t deserve either as far as she was concerned. He drove a long way without saying a word. She kept stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye, then looking back out the window in hope he didn’t catch her staring. At last, she switched on the radio, and they listened to music all the way back to London.

  “I went through some pictures last night after you left,” he said.

  “Did you?” she asked, more out of politeness than anything else.

  “Mostly of Adriana. I wanted them out of my active photo stream. It was hard going through them, but I needed some perspective that it gave me. I wrote her a letter,” he said, raking his hand through his hair and then stopping, “to tell her I’m sorry and that I’ve met someone. I’ve met you. You were wrong, actually, for once. I know what I want, Evie.”

  Evie turned to look at him expectantly. She didn’t know what to think about him writing to the dead girlfriend. It sounded like the sort of thing addicts did for closure, and she hoped there was a more promising end to the story he told. He pulled the car over so he could turn to face her in the confines of the front seat.

  “I love you. I knew it, but I didn’t say it aloud, and that was wrong of me,” he said, “May I?”

  He reached for her hand, and Evie let him take it. Leo raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. She struggled not to make a joke about how swoonworthy it was, how it undid her completely and made her want to kiss him and hug him and marry him and have lots of babies.

  “You’re awfully quiet. Would you tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “That you came back.”

  “I came to find you. I sat in my family’s townhouse in Notting Hill thinking how dull it was and how it could use some cats and a cookie cake and some of those small teacups you have on your shelves. It didn’t feel like home to me. But you do. You feel like home to me, Evie.” She couldn’t hold back any longer. She threw her arms around him and hugged him hard.

  “Not to be a complete loser but you’re hurting my shoulder rather badly just now,” he said, his voice muffled against her hair.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, drawing back and wiping her eyes.

  Leo put his arm around her, and she settled against his good shoulder. There was something so satisfying, so serene about being in his arms, not having to say a word. Being accepted and knowing, he loved her. He kissed the top of her head and swung the car back onto the road. Soon they were back in Notting Hill.

  “So, I want to show you something in my neighborhood,” Leo said as the driver pulled into a parking space on the high street, “this empty storefront. It’s dark green now, but we could have it any color you like. I thought it would be a great location,” he said. They stood before the plate glass windows of a broad, lovely shop, empty now and complete with a glass case and tables.

  “Location for what?” she asked.

  “For opening a branch of Thimble, either as an outpost, we could operate or as a franchise. It’s worked quite well for Edward and Carrie with her yarn store—excuse me, fiber arts store,” he said.

  She chewed her lip, unsure. She wanted to believe in this so much, but if things didn’t work out, if in six months’ time they broke up, she’d be saddled with the expensive Notting Hill overhead and two shops to manage instead of only one. She shook her head.

  “It’s a beautiful location, but I have my hands full with Thimble in Bath. It’s really taken off, which is wonderful but I don’t have the resources or personnel to open another shop in London,” she said.

  “If that’s how you feel, then we won’t try it,” he said, “It’s unfortunate since I already bought the bloody store, but I’m sure I can have the estate agent turn it.”

  “You bought it? Why would you?”

  “Engagement present. I thought you’d rather have that than some pearl brooch my great great aunt wore to Ascot once,” he said with an adorable shrug, “I reckon I could get the brooch, though, despite the fact Lizzy thinks all the royal jewels are hers.”

  “Did you say engagement present?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve botched this badly, haven’t I? I’ve never actually proposed marriage before and apparently I’m bollocks at it. Well, let’s have another go.”

  Prince Leopold Charles Alexander, Earl of Basingstoke, knelt on the sidewalk before her and took her hand.

  “I’d like you to marry me, Evie. I love your resourcefulness and determination and your excellent scones and your appalling bad sense of humor. I want all of that, and a home with you. Ever since I spent one night in your flat, I’ve felt like it was where I belonged. We can split our time however we need to between Bath and here—anything if you’ll only say yes.”

  “Yes, I will. On one condition. You have to take me back for afternoon tea at the Pump Room, and I can dress properly for it,” she said, smiling.

  “Gloves and a parasol?”

  “Yes, obviously. And I will expect you to explain how at least half the things in that unauthorized biography you gave me are completely untrue,” she said.

  Leo got to his feet and kissed her, “Anything you want. I’ll even call you Princess Leopold,” h
e said with a devastating smile.

  <<<<>>>>

  Afterward

  Thanks for reading The Royal Rake, the third book in my Royal Romances series. I hope you enjoyed it. If so, please consider leaving the book a review. Reviews help other readers decide whether my books are a good fit for them and can have a huge impact on an author’s career.

  If you’re feeling really royal, sign up for the Royal Romances newsletter and be the first to learn about new releases, contests, and giveaways. Psst, some of the giveaways will involve tea and “biscuits.” I do love the British! Sign up today at http://www.MollyJamesonBooks.com/newsletter/

  While you’re at it, tell me a little about yourself, because chatting with readers is one of my favorite things to do. It isn’t because I’m a distraction junkie or anything. Nope, not at all. Not me. Oooh, something shiny! Email me at MollyJamesonBooks@gmail.com.

  Molly

  Copyright

  © 2016 by Kimberly Parsley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.