The Playboy Prince and the Nanny (Royal Duology 1)

After he was gone, Rose picked up the paper and stared at Diego, holding Max on his shoulders. It should be Raoul, she thought, with a little bit of bitterness and indignation. The fact that Diego saw the need and stepped in only made him more attractive in her eyes. A man who took on his own responsibilities and some that shouldn’t be his to bear. That his own family couldn’t see his value had to be frustrating. Not that he ever showed it.

If the tabloids were to be believed, Diego Navarro was a man who didn’t understand the meaning of “responsibility.” But the papers were very wrong. He knew what responsibility meant; he also knew about loyalty, compassion, and family.

In the photo, she was looking up at him and smiling. She could understand how it might be construed as something personal, because it was.

She liked him. She more than liked him. And that was starting to become a very real problem.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rose spent the day keeping to the regular schedule of meals, lessons, playtime, and naptime. When their tea arrived, she discovered a pot of blissfully hot English brew, a slice of orange cake for herself, and the regular light snack for the children. Not one of the staff had mentioned the newspaper, but Rose had noticed a few sidelong glances and looks of sympathy sent her way. She assumed it was because she’d suddenly turned from nanny to a subject of romantic speculation. To anyone on the “outside” it probably seemed dreamy. But the reality was that any dalliance could ultimately get her fired. And even if it didn’t, it could affect her credibility and her ability to get work.

The cake tasted like comfort and solace. She wondered if Senora Ortiz had sent it as a pick-me-up. Or perhaps Diego had suggested it, as a peace offering of sorts. But how would she know? He’d also been conspicuously absent today, not stopping by even once, though he normally spent a part of his afternoon with the children and . . . well, and with her.

She frowned. That shouldn’t matter in the least. So what if they’d become friends of a sort? It was only because of the children. And there was certainly no future in it. She’d do best to keep her feet firmly on the ground and her head out of the clouds. When Diego wasn’t around, she could see things in a much clearer light. Blurring professional and personal lines was a big mistake, and one she needed to rectify right away.

Teatime came and went with no sign of Raoul, either. Rose seethed inside as she got the children ready for dinner. Granted, he hadn’t actually promised to see them before dinner, but he’d said he’d try. At this rate the only time they saw their father, or indeed their grandfather, was at the evening meal. That was not parenting. She’d seen it before with other families she’d worked for, and it had never sat quite right with her. Why have children if you were going to put them in a corner and pretend they didn’t exist? Maybe her family had its fair share of dysfunction, but they at least knew each other and had memories to share over the contentious Christmas table each year.

She put a last touch on the bow of Emilia’s dress, combed down a stubborn piece of Max’s dark hair, and took their hands as she dutifully delivered them to the dining room.

Diego was in the salon off the dining room and stood as they approached. “Don’t you look lovely . . . Emilia.”

Rose’s chest deflated. She should not have assumed the compliment was for her. She’d chosen a plain black pencil skirt for today, but her customary white blouse was fitted and had a ruffle from collar to waist that she thought was exceedingly pretty. But of course he was talking to Emilia, who looked quite cute in her flowered dress and delicate shoes. Besides, a compliment would be very inappropriate. Particularly today.

He stepped closer to Rose and smiled. “How was your day?”

She shrugged and offered a polite smile in return. “Fine, sir. The paper had some interesting reading.”

She wasn’t sure if the look of consternation was brought on by her use of “sir” or if it was the mention of the story in the paper. Diego’s br

ows pulled together and his lips thinned. “I should have warned you. Pictures tend to happen.”

“I particularly liked the part about me being the new palace plaything,” she replied smoothly, watching Max and Emilia wander to the dining room door and peek inside. She’d taken some time later in the day to sit down with the article and work through anything that she didn’t understand right away. “Palace Plaything” had definitely stood out.

“You’re not a plaything.”

She looked up at him. “But the women you’re usually photographed with are, you see? I should have realized that it was a bad idea to go with you. I have my own reputation to worry about. The terms of my employment require me to be above reproach.”

“And you are. We were,” he insisted.

“Perception counts,” she replied coolly. “I like you, Diego, and I had fun. But I was right in the first place. I’m staff, you’re royalty, and never the twain shall meet.”

He frowned. “I’m not familiar with that expression.”

Her throat tightened. “It means we each know our place.”

Dinner was called, and she straightened her shoulders. “And now you are called to dinner and I’ll make my way down to the kitchen. Good night, sir.”

“Good night,” he echoed, but she felt his gaze on her back as she left the room and headed toward the stairs and the kitchen below. She’d drawn the invisible line, and it hadn’t been that difficult.

Not putting a toe across it would be more of a challenge. The papers tended to call him irresistible. She was just glad he still hadn’t put together their previous, rather inauspicious meeting on the train. For him, a handful of pounds to pay for a few baskets of flowers was nothing. But it had been a very big something for her. And right now she certainly didn’t need another reason to feel connected to him.

* * *

Diego sat through dinner wishing he was anywhere else. While he appreciated Raoul’s attempt to keep the children to a regular routine—Ceci had always insisted they join the adults for the evening meal—it was depressing and colorless for Emilia and Max. He could see it on their faces. They picked at their food, and Diego noticed Max swinging his legs beneath the table in absolute boredom. Ceci had always asked them about their day, and Raoul usually joined in. Now they ate in silence as the men conversed a little, usually about state business. Then they went back to the nursery.

His heart hurt. He remembered it being much the same for him and Raoul after Mother died. Mama Mariana had been their saving grace.

Just like Rose was now. And what he’d wanted to be a fun, pleasant outing had earned her the label of . . . what was it she said? Palace Plaything.