Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

He never would have figured that out. The whole idiom brought up too many questions that h

is sleep-deprived brain couldn’t fight off. Why would anyone suck eggs? Could someone even fit an entire egg in their mouth? Were the eggs hard-boiled first? Was the grandmother supposed to eat the egg after or spit it out? The whole thing made his head ache as the beginnings of a migraine started to scratch at the backs of his eyeballs.

Brooke must have noticed the sour look on his face, because instead of continuing with her lecture, she set the parking brake and opened the driver’s door. “Come on—you look knackered. Let’s get you a bed.”

Even if the bed happened to be in the poisoned family homestead, he wasn’t about to turn it down. He got out of the car and followed Brooke into the musty old pile of bricks his grandfather called home.

Luckily, Earl Go Suck On an Egg was nowhere to be found, which was the first stroke of good luck he’d experienced since landing in this gloomy country. Nick was too tired for more family bullshit right now. All he wanted was a bed. His gaze wandered down to Brooke’s cute butt as she led him up the back stairs. If it looked that good in loose-fitting pants, there was no doubt it would be phenomenal out of them. What he wouldn’t give— He shook his head to knock that train of thought off the tracks. She was the enemy. Well, not the enemy, but definitely the antagonist and a no-go zone.

They turned right at the top of the staircase—decorated with the moth-eaten stuffed stag’s head that had probably seen better days about half a century ago—and walked to a door at the end of the hall with a knob that sat far enough down that he had to lean down just a bit to open it.

The door swung open with a quiet squeak, revealing a large bedroom. Maybe it was because of the last of the sunset coming through the huge bay window with six panes of individual beveled glass or it could be the fact that he was running on fumes, but the bedroom was the first part of the meandering mansion that didn’t make him want to take a hammer to it. A carved walnut four-poster bed with a canopy took up the wall to the right of the windows. On the opposite wall, there was a fireplace with a love seat, coffee table, and two chairs arranged in front of it. Smack in front of the window, which had ivy climbing up some of the panes, was a large, sturdy desk.

“The bathroom is right here,” Brooke said, gesturing toward a door near the sitting area.

Curious despite how tired he was, he opened it and peeked in. It had a shower, a clawfoot tub, and all the rest of the normal bathroom things, plus the addition of a wall-mounted towel warmer with two fluffy white towels placed onto it. It screamed out fire hazard to him, but judging by Brooke’s expression, everything was just the way it should be.

“There aren’t any outlets in the bathroom,” she said as she gave the room a cursory once-over. “So if you brought an electric razor, you’ll have to use it out here.”

Nick glanced around the bedroom. There was a narrow full-length, standing mirror near the fireplace, but shaving outside of the bathroom seemed weird. “Why aren’t there any plug-ins?”

A teacher once told him that there weren’t any dumb questions. Judging by the look on Lady Lemons’s face, she didn’t agree with that assessment.

“It’s against code because it’s a hazard,” she said.

That made absolutely no sense. “Wait, you have an electric towel warmer hanging from the wall that you purposefully put cotton towels on, but a plug-in is too much?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

His brain hurt. Not just from the migraine getting ready to kick his ass but also because the riddle of that logic was too twisted for him to untangle. And judging by the just-try-me expression, he wasn’t going to get to win a debate in his current condition anyway. Some days, it was better to concede the battle.

“Is that the closet?” he asked as he strode to the door by the bed.

“No, you have an armoire over here for your clothes,” she said, her voice a little more strained than before. “Mr. Harleson already put your bag in there.”

Ignoring the armoire, he grasped the knob. “So what’s in here?”

“It should be locked.” Her words were clipped, in full Lady Lemons mode.

Even as dead-ass tired and achy as he was, he couldn’t stop himself from pushing the issue. The knob turned. “Not locked.”

“Bloody hell.” Brooke let out a strangled groan. “You know curiosity killed the cat.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But satisfaction brought it back.”

He opened the door, and the scent of stale air, dust, and abandonment wafted in from the connected bedroom. The same golden sunlight came in through the matching bay window in the other room, but after that, the similarities ended. There were cobwebs hanging from the light fixture. The four-poster bed was unmade, with a stack of sheets and a comforter in the middle of the bare mattress along with a medium-size suitcase. He took a few steps into the room. The view didn’t get any better upon closer inspection.

“Whose room is this?” His money was on the house’s resident ghost.

“Mine,” she said, sounding about as thrilled as someone preparing to get six root canals without pain meds.

It wasn’t clean, but it was nice—a more feminine version of his own room with a pale-pink color scheme instead of the navy blue.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Lady Lemons?” he asked, turning to face her.

“Yes.” She screwed up her mouth and narrowed her blue eyes at him. “Stop calling me that.”

“Not gonna happen.” But the deflection was first-rate. Too bad he wasn’t the type to fall for it. “Spill.”