Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

The old man’s eyes widened and a rush of heat mottled his nose. “Who said that?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brooke’s face lose its color again as she clasped her hands together. If the woman wasn’t careful, she’d pass out from the quick up and down of her blood pressure. The fact that she didn’t was a point in her favor. Lady Lemons was made of stern stuff. He could appreciate that.

“I did a little research of my own,” he said. “And I have eyeballs. This place is a contractor’s wet dream.”

Obviously taking offense—too fucking bad—at Nick’s choice of words, the earl glared at him.

When Nick didn’t melt into a puddle of goo, the old man went on. “As my heir, you’ll be expected to carry on the traditions of Dallinger Park and the family.”

Nick ran the tip of his finger over the decorative scrollwork on the back of a chair that could use a good refinishing. Seeing it in such disrepair had him shaking his head. Not even furniture deserved to be treated with such malignant neglect. “You mean like letting this house fall apart around you?”

“If I didn’t already think you were not the right man for the job, that declaration would have completely confirmed it,” Charles said. “However, my son is dead, and you are the only living legitimate Vane left on the planet, according to my solicitors. Even though you have no idea what it takes to manage a property like Dallinger Park or to support Bowhaven and McVie University for the Deaf, you either inherit the title and accept your duty to those in our family’s care or the family legacy crumbles and the title dies with me.”

Nick didn’t hear the rest of the sentence after “not the right man for the job” as he made his way toward the door leading out of this horror show, but he didn’t give a shit because that part was the only one that mattered.

“Finally, something we agree on. You are completely correct,” he said as he stopped at the door and turned, his gaze clashing with the earl’s, neither of them blinking. “I’m not the right man for the job.”

“That may be so, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are my only option for an heir.” Charles sat down in the chair behind his desk, picking up one of the many papers scattered across it, and said almost to himself, “If only the villagers had worked a little harder and complained a little less, the Pepson Factory wouldn’t have closed down and so many of them wouldn’t be out of

jobs and looking to me for a handout.”

Brooke let out something that sounded like a half-muffled squeak of objection from her spot near the fireplace. By the time Nick had swiveled his attention over to her, though, she was silent and stoic-faced enough to make him second-guess himself. The blonde looked every bit as neutral and cold as Switzerland in World War II. Still, there was something in the tightness of that lush mouth of hers that got him right in the gut.

She may be silent, but that didn’t mean she was agreeing. Curious to find out if he was right, he propped his shoulder on the doorframe leading out to the hallway and gave the earl an appraising once-over.

“Really?” he asked after the silence had stretched good and taut. “That’s the answer you’re going with? That it was the people’s fault, not mismanagement, change in market demands, or anything else?”

“The Vanes are a great and proud family,” the earl went on, either oblivious and not caring about the fact that he’d just been called out for insulting the people who’d borne the brunt of the misery from the factory closing. “I’m not going to let you ruin my family name, so before I make a public announcement in thirty days declaring you as my heir, you’ll need to learn how to be an English earl, even if there isn’t a person out there more unsuited.”

Nick’s money was on the old man not caring about anything other than the Vane family reputation. No doubt he’d grown up the pampered aristocrat who’d had his every demand met and his every need fulfilled. He’d probably bullied and threatened and intimidated those around him his entire life…up until now anyway. Nick had always hated bullies.

“You’re that sure I’d agree to be your heir?” he asked, drawing the old man into his trap.

The earl’s pointed chin went up a degree. “You don’t have a choice.”

No choice? Nice try.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Chuckie,” he said, straightening to his full height and giving his grandfather a fuck-you look that would even put old Wig Man in the painting to shame. “Because I’m exercising some good old American freedom right here and right now by telling you and the rest of England to fuck straight off.”

Hitching his bag over his shoulder, Nick gave the asshole who’d contributed a quarter of his DNA and the woman who did his bidding a quick, sarcastic salute before walking out of the mansion, bypassing the chauffeur leaning against the Mercedes, and starting down the road that, according to the signs, led to Bowhaven. If there wasn’t an Uber there, he’d find a cab or someone willing to earn a quick buck by taking him to the airport so he could leave this damp, dreary country in his past where it belonged.

…

It was a rare occurrence for Brooke to be speechless, but she sure was now as she stared at the empty spot in the doorway where Nick (yes, she was thinking of him by his Christian name; how could she not after that?) had stood only moments before giving the earl—the earl!—the business. She’d never seen anything like it. She’d never met anyone like him. She should be appalled. She was—mostly. She was also ever so slightly intrigued and a little bit fluttery, something she would not be mentioning to any other living human ever.

“And that,” the earl declared, “is what happens when you’re raised in America.”

“Well, he is American.” She wanted to take back the words as soon as they were out of her mouth—obviously the younger Vane was a bad influence even in small doses—but the earl didn’t seem to notice any slight.

“Not any longer,” he said, his voice stronger than she’d heard in some months. “Now, unless you want to see this village fall to ruin, I suggest you put that brain I’m paying for to good use and find a way to turn my infernal American grandson into a proper English earl.”

How in the world was she supposed to do that? Especially when he refused to even be the earl—uncouth or proper? Did the earl not hear a word his grandson had said?

“I’m not sure—”

“I don’t need you to be sure. I need you to get the job done, and if you can’t, then I’ll find a personal secretary who can and without all the helpful suggestions about ways Dallinger Park can modernize.” He said the last word like a particularly offensive curse.

“Yes, sir.” Because really, what else could she say? Bowhaven was her home, and the people who lived in it her family—even the earl with his snarly ways was part of the fabric of the village.