Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

The “sir” made his skin crawl.

“Got it already.” He lifted the carry-on duffel in his hand. “And don’t worry about the ‘sir’ business. My name’s Nick. Remember?”

She shook her head, making her blond ponytail sway and catch the light. “I couldn’t do that.”

Normally, it was the laid-back women who caught his attention. The ones who knew what they wanted and were up for anything. No one had to work hard at it and everyone walked away happy. And even though Brooke Chapman-Powell was so tightly wound, she looked like she could turn coal to diamonds, mental images of that ponytail wrapped around his fist had his dick waking up and saying howdy. Must be a side effect of the migraine medication.

“Why can’t you call me by my name?” he asked, coming closer and taking in the details of the bow of her pale-pink lips and silver flecks in her cornflower-blue eyes. “You did it before.”

The pulse point at the base of her throat picked up speed. “It’s not proper. You’re the earl’s heir, and he is my employer.”

“And you’re always proper?” he asked, unable to stop himself from wondering what she was hiding under such a prissy outfit.

“Yes, Mr. Vane,” she said with just enough ice to freeze a glass of sweet tea in July. “I am.”

“Too bad.” He winked at her, pushing for a reaction just to find out if he could get one.

Her blue eyes widened, but instead of popping off at him as he’d half expected, she pursed her full lips together, never losing eye contact even for a millisecond. “This way, sir.”

Then Lady Lemons—as he’d officially nicknamed her—spun around and led him out the doors to a waiting Mercedes and the chauffeur holding open the back passenger door. Okay, so he’d have to Uber back to the airport, since being driven by his grandfather’s chauffeur sure as hell wasn’t going to work out on the trip back.

Because Nick Vane planned to tell the old man to fly a kite right up his ass and then get the fuck back to Virginia, and Lady Lemons wasn’t about to stop him.

Chapter Four

“Too bad.”

Not bloody likely…and most assuredly not when the future earl was snoring softly next to Brooke in the back seat. At least he wasn’t resting on her shoulder. That had happened once already on the half-hour drive back to Dallinger Park from the airport, and she’d jostled him off, with utmost respect, of course. He’d mumbled something about medication and started snoring again.

Nothing in the solicitor’s report had mentioned a drinking or drug problem, but one could never be too careful. She’d alert the staff (bare-bones as it was) to keep an eye on the wine cellar, as it was one of the estate’s important assets still left.

“Just about there,” Mr. Harleson said, pulling onto the private road near the North York Moors. “He’s not exactly what we’ve been expecting, is he?”

Refusing to let herself check out the line of Nick’s square jaw or the way his broad shoulders rose and fell with each of his deep breaths, Brooke remained facing forward, chin high, attention focused on the view of the distinctive half-cone shape of the Rosebery Topping hill in the distance. “Life so seldom is.”

“Reminds me a little bit of his dad,” Harleson said. “But he’s got the look of the old earl about him, too.”

“You think?” Finally having a reason—not an excuse, a reason—to look, she studied the American’s profile. “I don’t see it.”

“Only because from the perspective of a young woman just starting out in life, the earl has been old since you met him. I’ve been here a lot longer.” He let out a rusty chuckle and turned onto the driveway. “Best wake him.”

Lucky her.

She tapped the American on the shoulder. He didn’t move.

“Mr. Vane,” she said in a stage whisper.

She tried again, this ti

me with more force.

“Sir?”

Nothing. As the ivy-covered ancestral home loomed up ahead, she let out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m not cracking my eyes open until you call me Nick,” he said without even a hint of sleep in his voice.

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “You’ve been awake this whole time?”