Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

“Off and on,” he said, his eyes still closed, his unfairly long, dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks. “Now are you gonna call me Nick or what?”

The temptation to blame his obstinance on his country of origin was great, but even if she hadn’t been at Dallinger Park as long as Mr. Harleson, she knew the legendary Vane stubborn streak when she saw it. “Nick.”

“There, that wasn’t hard at all.” He opened his hazel eyes that were, now that she thought about it, the same shade as the earl’s, and winked at her before turning his attention to the three-story Jacobean-style house that was their destination. He stared for a moment, the vein in his temple pulsing. “So that’s the old homestead.”

“Yes, Dallinger Park was built in 1856. It has been the Vane family residence for generations. Prior to this version of Dallinger Park, there was another grand house built in 1682, but it burned down in 1841. The nearby village of Bowhaven and the local McVie University depend upon the earl and the estate for their livelihood since the Pepson Factory closed down three years ago.”

His jaw tightened. “What does Gramps do for them?”

Oh, the earl would not like that nickname. Not even a little. “As much as he can, I’m sure.” Which equated to as much as she could nudge him into doing, considering the precarious financial situation the earl was in as well. The earl had been too angry to do much of anything about either situation but issue orders and stare out at the moors. Now that she knew about the dementia diagnosis, that helped to explain some of that. Stress could be a trigger for an episode just like the sunset could be. Of course, the earl had always been tight with money, according to her perusal of the estate accounts. But there hadn’t been enough to take care of Dallinger Park the way it should be for generations.

“Yeah.” Nick snorted. “He’s a real generous guy.”

What could she say to that without letting things slip? Nothing. So she focused on straightening the already orderly stack of folders on her lap.

They sat in silence as Mr. Harleson stopped the car in front of the massive front doors that could have repelled foreign invaders for centuries and would now open wide for an American.

She glanced at the man to her left again and worried for the first time if her pint glass wasn’t indeed half empty.

…

Nick walked up the steps to Dallinger Park, which happened to be a mansion in the middle of enough green space to count as a city park. From the outside, it looked like the very definition of privilege and money. Inside, though, was a different story.

The rug in the foyer leading into the hall was dull and threadbare. The hardwood floors themselves showed the nicks and bows of long-term use without care. His gaze traveled up the walls and over the paintings of Vanes who’d come before and stopped at a very distinct, roundish brown stain that screamed out leaky pipes. It looked like the house, just like the Vane family, was rotten on the inside. Shaking his head, he followed Lady Lemons down the hall.

Their footsteps echoed up to the vaulted ceiling, dragging his attention away from Brooke and upward. The place had good bones that called out to the builder and tinkerer in his soul, the one who always fiddled and tweaked things until they ran smoother, worked better, and made life easier. That’s how in high school he’d ended up installing for his mom a motorized dumbwaiter in the house he’d grown up in. She’d tripped going down the stairs with the laundry, so he’d gone to work.

If only he’d spent as much time paying attention to the cause behind her sudden clumsiness, maybe things would have ended differently.

If only it hadn’t just been them against the world, thanks to the asshole in the room he and Lady Lemons were walking into, maybe his mama would have had someone looking out for her instead of a fourteen-year-old kid who should have made her go to the doctor sooner.

If only… It was a list that went on forever and didn’t fix anything. Telling the old man who’d delivered the first blow to fuck off was about as close as he was going to get to a happy ending for his if-only list.

The room was large and dominated by a gargantuan painting of a guy in a white wig above a large fireplace with a chipped mantel. Wig Dude looked down his narrow little nose at Nick.

Well, cheerio to you, too, buddy.

The rest of the room was covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that would have given his mom the happy giggles, windows that looked out onto the green hills dotted with purple heather and overgrown white rose bushes that made up one helluva pretty backyard—especially since the sun was just starting to go down, giving the whole view a soft, Instagram-filtered look. It wasn’t the glimmering blue of the lake right out the back door of his house in Salvation, but even he had to admit it was still pretty good.

“My lord, may I present your grandson, Nicholas Vane,” Ms. Chapman-Powell said, her tone deferential.

Nick didn’t like that tone. He liked her better tart with an underlying fluster that got his curiosity rolling. No doubt he’d be getting an earful from that part of her once he’d said his piece to the old man and sauntered on out of this place for good. If there was a way of making sure that didn’t happen, he would have done it. However, this was for his mom, and as Mama had always said, sometimes when choosing between a rock and a hard place, the rock won by landing on you.

Anticipation of finally delivering his screw-you salute on his mother’s behalf finally brought his attention to the reason he was here in the first place: Charles Vane, Earl of Englefield, stood behind a massive mahogany desk. He was tall, roughly Nick’s height, with straight shoulders, pale skin that didn’t look like it had the balls to wrinkle, and a full head of bright-white hair that he kept almost as short as his compassion for family. Of course, if he’d kept it that short, he’d be balder than bald.

“Hey, Chuck, some place you got here,” Nick said, playing up the brash American to get under the other man’s skin. He sauntered across the room to the windows. “Quite the view.”

As expected, his words hit like a three-hundred-pound lineman. Watching the reflection in the window, he caught the old man narrow his eyes and clench his jaw. Good. Nick let his face fall back into the good-old-boy grin that got him both laid and out of trouble back home; then he turned to face the other man. However, he couldn’t help but let his gaze scoot over to Lady Lemons as he did so.

Brooke’s face had lost all its color, only to be replaced with a bright-red splash on both cheeks that brought out the blue of her eyes. Strange thing to be noticing at a time like this, but par for the course.

“You may call me grandfather,” the old man said, his voice an aged, English-accented version of the deep baritone that came out of Nick’s own mouth.

It made his skin crawl. The last thing he wanted was to have anything in common with this man. Not that he was going to show that. Keeping his body language relaxed, Nick shrugged and made his way through the overstuffed love seats and chairs covered in sun-faded upholstery of pale-pink roses and twisting green vines. “Won’t be staying long enough to worry about calling you anything.”

“If you can refrain from being so American for a moment,” Charles said, “you’ll be able to grasp the full weight of the responsibilities you’re about to inherit.”

“Like a crumbling estate?” he shot back.